


boundaries are conventions

by aleksandr_starshow



Category: Armie Hammer - Fandom, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Timothée Chalamet - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, References to Child Abuse, Slowest Burn, also this is the slowest burn ever, anyway tags are updated with each chapter as per usual, guys guys when i say slow burn i literally meant slow fucking burn, historical fiction? historical fiction, i flatly refuse to make elizabeth an evil bitch, i'm just sticking to the timeline and facts described/mentioned in interviews because it's easier, like villainise the wife, lots of tension and unvoiced questions, oh look kissing, this is just me walking through their lives between march 2016 and march 2018, timmy's kinda moody in this chapter, we here don't do what sony execs wanted to do, you know how it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-05-20 10:46:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleksandr_starshow/pseuds/aleksandr_starshow
Summary: there's no plotno, reallya couple guys act in a movie or three, pay some bills, and get dinner together once or fifteen times******for mattia, anna, oscar, jeanmarie, aanal, and i guess the sanchezes





	1. planes are terrible and there are a lot of plants

 

 

**2013**

Back in the hot month of June where NYC hit more record temperatures (thanks, global warming!), he'd been dressed in a simply black tee and slacks, with a white gown billowing around him, red tassels draped around his shoulders. He'd signed yearbooks, the tops of graduation caps, endured all the lovely ladies kissing his cheeks, the guys fist bumping him, hugging him, laughing and carrying on. He'd taken pictures with family, groaned as they were posted on social media. He was moving, moving, moving, always in action, in his mind, in his life. He was soon on set. He was off set. He was at home, eating a delicious dinner his mother had just cooked. Filming wrapped.  A tell-tale breakfast was imminent. He'd been handed a book and had been told to read it and read it well. He was told he was the first choice.

This is what you've always wanted!

Timmy had binge-watched about a dozen of James Ivory's films, everything from _The Sword and the Flute_ to  _The City of Your Final Destination_. He'd paid particularly close attention to _A Room with a View_ and _Maurice_ , as well as _Slaves of New York_ , _Howards End_ , _The Remains of the Day_ , and so on, so forth. He lacked the wisdom to catch most of the subtleties but he appreciated them nonetheless. When he was finally faced with James Ivory and going over the book _Call Me by Your Name_  (a script hadn't been completed yet), Timmy found himself regretting having rushed through the films. He should have savoured them, paused them, replayed scenes, over and over and over again. But he hadn't and film quotes died on his lips. James Ivory was a marvel. He sat on Timmy's mother's couch and they talked continuously for hours about scenes and character. It was only when lunch rolled around that Timmy realised how famished, how parched he was. He gulped down water, and some tomato toast with provolone.

He had so many questions. When will filming start?  What would such intimacy entail? Did they really think he was mature enough to pull it off? Would the film actually be shot in Italy? And a thousand more. Thankfully, Ivory answered all of them without Timmy needing to ask. _Well, we're not sure when filming will start. We still don't, ah, have the funds but we're trying. Intimacy is a self discovery, it's a personal journey for any actor. What the intimacy will actually entail will be entirely up to you. Yes, we think you are mature enough, but your current age might be a legal issue. Not just because of the nature of the film but actors under 18 are subject to child labour laws, as you well know. We would like to shoot in Italy, yes. You know how authentic and detail-oriented we must be to capture the essence of the book, which is all about a summer romance in a foreign countryside. It's that level of anonymity we would like to achieve at the start of filming. We'll be in touch. It was a pleasure meeting you, Timothée._

Timmy came to the conclusion then: it doesn't matter how much filmography you consume; you'll never be prepared to meet an actor or a director or a writer in person.

Later, Timmy was informed of several actors who'd been considered for the role of Oliver. He did find himself breathing a small sigh of relief when Shia LaBeouf was turned down. He admired LaBeouf's work. _Nymphomaniac_ , amongst other things , was mesmerising. He'd related to some of the sexual audacity even though he'd often lacked a bit of that himself. But he understood on a subconscious level (okay, maybe the animal cut scenes were a little weird). Still though. Kissing LaBeouf, he imagined, was probably like consuming the taste of marijuana mixed with the taste of teeth that hadn't been brushed in several days. He couldn't even imagine running his fingers through that hair. Now, _Hammer_ on the other hand…

Timmy lay at home on his unmounted mattress. He went through much of Hammer's filmography before going back to _The Social Network_. A feeling of oddity settled over him. Curiously, he turned off the sound and watched Hammer's scenes on mute, taking in his facial expressions, the way the corners of his mouth quirked in certain ways, how sharp his cheekbones were, the flutter of his eyelashes. He particularly enjoyed the indignation and later fury that he saw there in those eyes, eyes that could go from a gentle summer sky to a blazing hailstorm in .6 seconds flat. He admitted silently to himself that he probably would have found it kind of exhilarating to see Hammer beat up Eisenberg. Actually, no, that probably wouldn't have been such a thrilling fight. Eisenberg would have conceded in less time it took for Hammer to build up his anger. L-M-A-O.    

Timmy froze the film right on Hammer's face. He sat and stared, lost in thought. He tried, in a thousand different ways, to picture him as Oliver. Truth be told, he knew nothing about him. Hammer wasn't a particular unknown but he wasn't an A - lister either. When he'd Google'd some of Hammer's interviews, he found him to be aloof, goofy, maybe a little tired. Definitely bold, letting slip too much in some cases. A little bit of sensitivity showed through in _J. Edgar_ but Timmy wasn't sure he was convinced. There was no doubt Hammer was good. But…

_But._

He continued to gaze at the screen, a small frown on his face, trying to see beyond the mask of acting.

_This is what I want, right?_

He saw Claire Danes at a Gala several months before he was due to leave for Italy. She'd said hi but otherwise hadn't approached him. So, instead, he approached her. He told her about the role and, two glasses of wine later, he found himself spilling the beans, desperate to be her amanuensis. _How do I do this? What's the secret to pulling off a role like this?_  

Danes had just laughed gaily, swished her hair and said, _The wonderful thing, the scariest thing about acting, Timothée, isn't going into the film. It's not who you are before the film. It's who you've become when it's all over._

Right before leaving for Italy, Timmy watched _The Social Network_ again. He was doing the same thing with Hammer that he'd done with Ivory. You can't really know a person till you know them. Or something. He laughed at his own ridiculousness, watched as his roommate donned his jacket and left for the evening, turned off the sound and let the film play for the eighth time on mute. Timmy stretched out on the couch, and as he watched Hammer silently tackle the arrogant twat that was Fincher's idea of Zuckerberg, he found himself slightly uncomfortable, a restlessness and minute yearning he couldn't explain. He changed positions, but it didn't help. It was useless to try to know someone before knowing them anyway, wasn't it?

Oh well. Some habits die hard.

~ 

Meanwhile, on the West Coast…

"Take the role," she said.  

He trusted her and he trusted her and he trusted her. He picked up his phone and dialed. And waited. He accepted the role, even said he needed to do it, sounding almost as destitute as he felt, like a man in a desert without water. Isn't this what he'd been wanting? Maybe he hadn't really known it. But he did now.  

Oh _God_ , it terrified him.  

"To find yourself, you must do what terrifies you."  

He hated it when people said stuff like that to him.  

After the phone call, his wife hit him playfully on the shoulder with the book. "It's the sexiest book I've ever read," she reiterated for the sixth time that afternoon.  

Armie just snorted, rolled his eyes, and wondered what the hell he was getting into. He definitely didn't know the half of it.  

 

**March 2016**

When he watched New York fall away from view along with the Northeastern seaboard, he finally exhaled, sat back in his seat and stared at the compartment above him. His fingers twitched, fiddled with a broken pen cap, and one of those plastic wristbands you can order online in bulk - his stripes of reds that faded into bands of white, the words 'Fiorello LaGuardia HS Class of 2013' emblazoned in luminous dark silver. He hadn't worn anything from his HS in years but Demelina had managed to catch up with him and well, she was kind of hard to avoid once she caught sight of you. Timothée Hal Chalamet had skedaddled from _that_ disaster of a scene as fast as he could. Yet, as he drummed his fingers on his knees and twisted the bracelet around and around and around his wrist, he appreciated her. She had given him something to hold on to, a memento of a time when things were turbulent in their own ways, but still simpler, less terrifying. 

His younger self would probably disagree. 

He snorted at the idea. He was being pathetic. Isn't this what he'd wanted?

Timmy bit his lip and looked out the window. One stopover in London and then he'd be on the homestretch. Clay, another memory from a recent past, would have said something about how _lucky_ Timmy was, to be going, and going, and going. Always going. Clay had been the type of guy to see a plane flying overhead and get that visceral longing in his stomach, you know, the wanderlust. Clay had once written a monologue about feeling like he was trapped on the ground, in the confines of the steel and concrete of New York City. He'd lamented about how the only true source of freedom was flight and the least inhibited one could possibly get, outside of skydiving Timmy supposed, was being in a plane. The excitement and adrenaline that came with the transit - that was stuff Clay understood. Timmy didn't, not really. There was a companionship between he and New York City, a steel bond that tied him to his city and the further he was away from it, the more painful it became. He could only vaguely tolerate the phantom pain while in Lyon because, at least in Lyon he could look around his family members and embrace the Europeanness of it all, but also spot small things that reminded him of New York, of home, like looking at a fucking _Where's Waldo_ picture. He could comfort himself with his little _I Spy_ games but now... Timmy just wanted the flight to end. He wasn't the claustrophobic type but being in a metal container thousands of feet in the sky, leaving (forsaking) his city, wasn't his idea of _freedom, fuuuck that._ He wanted to land, get out of the damn plane, get introductions over with and then sleep. Maybe act like this was all a dream, too. That way he wouldn't feel let down when Luca Guadagnino took another look at him, shook his head, said something like, "I'm afraid we cast the wrong kid," and sent him back to Hell's Kitchen.

 _He's not going to dismiss you, man. Chill the fuck out. You already signed all the paperwork. You spent two fucking weeks with James Ivory (yeah,_ that _James Ivory). You're gonna see Armie Hammer and the Garrel chick and Michael Stuhlbarg. You're gonna see them all. You know French countryside. Now meet Italian countryside._

These thoughts did nothing to soothe the nerves.

He needed a drink. When the flight attendant (her name was Janet) came by, Timmy asked for water. The waitress smiled, probably mistook him for being six years younger than he actually was, and handed him a small water bottle and a clear, plastic cup with ice in it. He could barely get out a 'thank you' but he smiled back at her. When she'd moved on, Timmy poured the water into his cup and then stared into it, like he was gazing at his reflection though he couldn't see much. He could just make out his disheveled appearance, his already ruffled hair, the bags under his eyes, the slight redness of his nose from the weather. He licked his lips. He was an arrant worrier. 

When he touched down in London, he was a ghost. He kept checking the time on his phone but it hadn't updated yet. He put it away only to take it out again seconds later. He bought a bottle of water and drank the entire thing before they were called to board. His feet were iron blocks. 

Isn't this what he wanted?

Timmy shivered suddenly, drew a blanket over his thin frame. He checked his phone, answered scattered texts from his mother and Pauline in the Whatsapp family chat, directly texted his father, sent what he hoped was a smug smiley emoticon to his cousin Lothaire and responded to Uncle Rodman's text about being in transit with a Vonnegut quote. Brian Swardstrom sent him a quick, "how you holding up?" to which Timmy replied with a "my stomach is gonna explode but I won't let you down." To which Brian just sent him a thumbs up emoticon. Naturally. 

Timmy curled up under the blanket, his mind being suffocated by ruminating thoughts. Was he a charlatan if he was an epigone? All actors are imitators, right? This wasn't any different. This was another role. Another notch on his post. 

Another bullet point on his résumé.

_Isn't this what you wanted?_

Yes, yes, and yes. It should feel like a holiday. A dream come true.

But his nerves had taken over. 

So, for the rest of the flight, Timmy dozed in a bare half slumber, the kind that blurs the lines between that of wakefulness and dreams. 

~ 

MXP was a whirlwind of sleep deprived zombification and getting through immigration. Timmy hadn't expected an entourage when he arrived but he was immediately embraced by Luca Guadagnino and man, he could have just fallen asleep again right there. But he forced himself awake and cognizant, gave a sleepy _ciao_ , and yes, I'm well, my flight was good, yeah, I'm good, just tired, but I'm grateful to be here, thank you so much for everything.

He regretted later not taking in more of the airport and its modern sleekness. He'd make a mental note to be more observant and appreciative on his way home.

The first night in Italy was to be spent at Luca's before Timmy would settle in his own apartment (Luca had said he could stay longer but Timmy, already feeling dazed, had said thank you, but his agent had insisted on booking a hotel room elsewhere). He'd switched his phone over to an international plan and while he tried to connect to Luca's wi-fi, Luca bustled in the kitchen and the smells wafted all around him. Luca lived in an apartment in a 17th century _palazzo_ and Timmy couldn't help but admire the clash of ornate and plain, of complexity and simplicity and the sheer, angular masculinity of it all. The building's age showed, but instead of being disparaged as it was in Timmy's own apartment back in New York, the age was embraced and showcased as part of the splendor. Timmy appreciated the fact that he didn't feel like he could break anything in the apartment - it wasn't littered with clutter, with porcelain figurines or glass. It was solid. He even forgot that everything down to the dining room chairs and the strangely appealing blue carpet were all designer.

"Please wander," Luca said, shooing him away from the kitchen. It was not only an invitation but a friendly demand that Timmy explore so, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes, he did. He gazed up at the peeling frescoes and envied the way Luca could make such soft palettes of lavenders, indigos, periwinkle and sky blues work with the harsh contrasts of whites, yellows, and reds, bright in their own daring attitude. Trailing his fingers along the back of the couch (which had been incredibly comfortable), Timmy meandered into the dining room. It was incredibly plain in comparison; the only real intricacies being a singular porcelain statue (ha!) and the gold designs on the doors, which Timmy traced idly with a finger. Bare bulbs perched atop cherry posts blended in with the anachronism of the styles. 

Timmy hummed to himself as he touched the dining room table before moving towards the master bedroom. He averted his gaze even though there was nothing personal to see. Maybe there was something personal about a bed? He'd never really thought about his own bed before. He didn't share it with anyone. He didn't care that, back in his own apartment, you could walk into his room and his bed was just blatantly _there_ and non-committal, just a mattress with sheets and a comforter thrown across it in shambles. He couldn't imagine someone else laying in bed with him at his place. The last time he'd had sex, he'd been at the girl's place and they'd snuck around exactly as they were: horny, high teenagers. 

Leaving the airiness of the master bedroom, Timmy entered what was going to be his favourite room, a room he'd grow to know every inch of. It was almost like a second living room, a _loggia_ , but lined on one side with palatial windows, and on the other side with plants and a fireplace. Magazines and gardening books were sorted into haphazard piles. There were notebooks, baskets of pens and miscellaneous things, newspapers, and Timmy knew Luca spent a large portion of his creative time in this room in particular. Timmy touched the fronds of the large house plants that threatened to fall over due to sheer size. He smelled their greenness, their wildness, and breathed deeply. 

"I went to Sweden two summers ago," Luca said, standing at the other end of the _loggia_ , watching Timmy admire the plants. "I wanted to visit the Dream Park, designed by Piet Oudalf. I told my friends, 'We have to be there at 8 o'clock in the morning when the light is nicest.' We land there, everyone is grumpy and then we turn and we are in front of this wonder, this splendor, and everyone exhales. We...We spent two hours wandering around. I didn't want to leave. I told myself that my next place will have a garden." He peered curiously at Timmy. "I think you'd enjoy the Dream Park." In telling this story, Luca was probably inadvertently telling Timmy that if you're going to do something right, do it fully. Wake up early for the picture perfect moment. Don't half-ass things. Don't take splendor for granted.

"I think I would, too," Timmy said, a little breathlessly, feeling so appreciative of the fact that he was being spoken to like he and Luca had been friends for decades. This is what he lived for. This human connection. Luca smiled a little, watching Timmy take in the room. He seemed to come to a mental decision, nodded to himself, added, "If you need anything, you know where to find me. Dinner will be ready shortly." He vanished to go back to rolling and slicing fettuccine on his pasta maker.   

Timmy gazed out the window and down at the old tree outside, a tree that met his gaze somberly and sagely. His phone buzzed. He had no less than twenty-four notifications, mostly Snapchat and Whatsapp spams, but he opened a text from Jake, another relic from LaGuardia. 

 _how goes it_  

 _it's okay, i'm in his apartment. it's very nice_  

Timmy wandered back into the living room, bare foot padding silently across that azure carpet. He took a picture of the frescoes and texted them to Jake. 

 _ugh too much art deco for me, i need rustic_  

 _like wood and plants and shit_  

Timmy thought of the _loggia_ with all its plants. 

 _you must hate my place then whenever you're over_ , he texted back.

Jake responded immediately. _t_ _hat's no secret dude t_ _he most interesting thing about your place is the outside hallway_

Timmy sighed, feeling that pull from his bond to New York City. _ruuude._  

After the most fulfilling dinner ever for his jet-lagged stomach, Timmy crashed in the guest room/office. Luca didn't outright apologise for the haphazard desks and stacks of papers but he spoke apologetically anyway. Timmy curled a hand under his chin and said it was okay, everything was perfect, thank you, thank you, thank you so much for this. This means a lot to me.

He yawned and settled in. He thought he'd lay awake for forever, mulling over everything, trying to process what was happening. 

But sleep overcame him.

Yeah, this was _totally_ what he wanted.

 


	2. why can’t working out involve sitting in one place for forever doing nothing

                                                                                                “It isn't by getting out of the world that we become enlightened,

                                                                                                but by getting into the world…by getting so tuned in that we can

                                                                                                ride the waves of our existence and never get tossed because

                                                                                                we become the waves.”

                                                                                                                         ― Ken Kesey, _Kesey's Garage Sale_

 

Timmy woke to three things: 1) sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, 2) lots of voices and footsteps and doors opening and closing and 3) morning wood.

He sighed. Ran a hand over his face, slowly blinked, squinted in the sunlight. He was completely unaware of the way the sunlight filtered through the room and grazed over his skin, casting his face into a Renaissance portrait.

It wouldn't have mattered anyway though because he was sort of grimacing in annoyance with himself, for no real reason other than biology being a bitch. He took a moment to consider his predicament before finally sliding out of bed, shivering slightly, arms wrapped about himself, as he walked over to his duffel and rummaged through it in search of the right kind of pants. He slipped on some dark grey and very baggy sports pants and stood there a moment, wondering if he should grab his earphones. He could use some wake up music. But he wasn't sure how Luca Guadagnino operated yet. He'd known the man for two years or so but this was the first time he'd been present in the filmmaker's own home, with a crew constantly entering and leaving the downstairs, and people trudging around loudly, shouting things at each other in rapid fire Italian and...

If he put in earbuds, there was no way to be sure that Timmy would hear Guadagnino calling for him. Would Luca call? Would he text? Would he knock on the door? Would he, would he, would he? Timmy didn't know. He rubbed his nose, sniffed a little, and decided it'd probably be best to go shower. He checked his phone, saw the number of notifications attached to Whatsapp and sighed. He'd also received a text from Will, his roommate. He didn't open either of these though.

The bathroom was rife with black tile, a stark white tub, a simple but extraordinarily clean looking sink with a metal shelf beneath it, and, of course, more plants. Timmy raised an eyebrow at them as he passed, drew the curtain around the tub and turned on the shower. He undressed, leaving his clothes in a scattered mess on the floor. He was about to hop into the shower, but he turned back, glancing down at the clothes and sort of unceremoniously kicked them into a more condensed pile. He stared at the pile for a second, rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, arms splayed out in a gesture of " _what did I do to deserve this_ " before carelessly bending over and hastily folding them and stacking them into... a somewhat neat pile. It looked better, he supposed. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to do that. Maybe being there, being in Luca's personal space, was weighing on him just a little. He'd known Luca for two years but knowing someone outside their home and then abruptly living with them, no matter how brief, are two completely different things. Had he been in his own apartment already, Timmy would have put on some music to accompany him.

Timmy ran a hand over his face. Half-satisfied with his pile of clothes, he jumped into the shower. The warm spray immediately relaxed him. Yes, yes he could do this. This would be fine. This would be good.

This was what he wanted.

He felt a little guilty finishing himself off in the shower, but hey, at least it was _in the shower_ and not somewhere else. Was there a protocol for such things? He didn't know. Never had to really think about it before. In fact, had he ever stayed in a director's home before?

He finished up as quickly as he could even though he wanted to take fifteen hours, dried, dressed, mussed his hair, combed it, mussed it again, gave up, and, with clothes in hand, stalked back into his bedroom. Raised voices in Italian could be heard just outside.

 _"Dove hai preso quel brutto vaso? Non sta bene lì! No, mi ha detto--mi ha_ detto, _che dovrebbe essere della dinastia Han..."_

_"È lei quella che ha viaggiato tanto, sai, non io--"_

_"--sistemate le telecamere--"_

_"--sul temporale? Non lo so, dovremmo ancora--"_

_"Vanda ti ha almeno dato il suo numero? Come la vedrai di nuovo?"_

_"--sappiamo di Mafalda e nel mentre siamo qua a discutere di sedie e vasi cinesi--"_

_"Viola, cara--"_

_"Non chiamarmi così--"_

_"--mosche, miele, trappole, non pensa che funzionerà, no no no --non si può fare--"_

_"--ho portato alcune mappe che ho comprato a Kiev--"_

_"--dobbiamo riorganizzare--"_

Timmy listened to the cadences of the speech, taking it all in. It sounded so foreign but so familiar. He wasn't a stranger to Italian - kind of impossible when you've been born and bred in New York City, your own mother worked at a real estate agency on Madison with a lot of Italian clients looking to buy homes in the Hamptons, and LaGuardia also had its fair share of Italian exchange students. Hearing it so brisk, so sure-sounding, in a clearly unAmerican environment made everything so much more real, like he'd been in a daze yesterday and today was...today the beginning of the rest of his life.

The rest of his life would begin in Italy.

Timmy wondered if that meant anything metaphorically.

Probably not.

Yet, he didn't feel like he was truly out of place. Maybe a little off-kilter due to jet-lag and not speaking Italian, but everything else felt present like he was _supposed_ to be there: everything from the colour palettes and strange decor to Luca's mischievous and worried smile to the ancient buildings in old town Crema.

"Are you okay, Timothée?" Luca knocked at his door and slowly opened it. His smile was absent, eyes a little concerned, hair as wild as ever. He kind of reminded Timmy of Einstein. He wondered if wild hair was just a trait of ingenuity. He decided he'd have to look into this and see what he could do to his own hair.

Speaking of hair, he ran a hand through it and smiled and said, "Uh, yeah, yeah, of course. I just--uh--" His phone vibrated against his hip. He ignored it. Luca beckoned to him.

"Are you ready? I would like to introduce you to some of the, ah, crew--"

"Oh! Sure, of course," Timmy said graciously. Glancing back at the bed and his stuff to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, Timmy followed Luca into the living room. There were magazines scattered across one of the tables. Two women were bent over the table, going through pages, tearing some out, pointing, and discussing. They both looked up as Timmy and Luca approached them.

"You must be Timothée! Oh, you are just as lovely as Luca described!"

"This is Violante Visconti di Madrone--"

"Not _Donna_ Violante, I assure you," the woman said, smiling and Timmy had no idea what she was talking about. But he shook her hand anyway. She reminded him of his mother in a way: they both had that same dark hair and bright eyes but Violante`s hair was cropped shorter, closer to the skull. She wore long, black slacks that billowed around her ankles, pointed heels, and a crimson blouse cinched at the waist. She was extraordinarily elegant without being physically intimidating. The second woman was blonde, devoid of cosmetics and more relaxed in attire. A pink floral scarf was draped over her shoulders.

"Gaia," she said, holding out her hand.

"This is our lovely landscape designer, Gaia Giusti," Luca said proudly. "She will design each and every flower placement to enhance the beauty of our villa."

Gaia rolled her eyes. "Yep, exactly, no pressure, right?"

"I'm sure it'll look great," Timmy said because he had no idea what else to say and it wasn't like he was lying anyway. Luca kind of led him around the apartment, introducing him to people in passing and Timmy felt kind of guilty (he was good at this guilt thing, wasn't he) for not remembering too many names. It wasn't just being inundated with names, but being inundated with _foreign_ names: Savino, Picarozzi, Alunni, Bozza, Conde, Trapani, Quadroli (Quadroli, Quadroli - weren't there like three of them?), Bertani, Cammereieri-something-or-other. Timmy wondered if he'd ever get to know everyone, if he'd get to know them personally, and he wondered this without realising that, yes, by June, he would know them all and he would know them all personally.

Timmy eventually had a moment to hop on social media and check messages and texts. He responded to the family chat, ignored Lothaire's angry emoticon, and checked in on instagram. Giullian had posted a photo of he, Timmy, and Kristina, posing for something or other. He also saw Will's latest update and it made Timmy a little heartsick.

 _why you posting pictures of me on insta_ , he wrote to Will.

 _gotta appease the fans, you're better looking than me. you know how it  goes_ , Will responded and Timmy could hear his voice, how naturally silken it always sounded.

He laughed to himself.

_you didn't even post a picture of my face_

Will's reply was snarky and loving. _you have a nice back, what can i say_

Timmy paused, covered a yawn with his hand and typed _miss you_ before deleting it and writing _you coming with Guil to the set?_

He sent that one and waited.

Will didn't respond immediately so Timmy switched apps. Restless, he locked his phone, slipped it into his pocket and left the _palazzo_ . Luca had told him to explore. Dinner would be at eight. As Timmy was deciding where to go, his phone vibrated. All that he received was a message from Will going _you know we are. i wouldn't miss that for the world._

***

Dinner wasn't actually served until well after nine. It was Timmy, Luca, Ferdinando Cito Filomarino (who was weirdly pretty in his own right and had a name that rolled pleasantly off the tongue), Gaia, Violante, Walter Fasano, Stella Savino, Sayombhu Mukdeeprom (who was an utter joy to listen to), Tom Dolby, Peter Spears and a few other people Timmy didn't immediately recognise. Niko Romito, a chef friend of Luca's, was preparing a simple, native dinner as a sort of introduction into Cremaschi culture.

"I think it is time for a history lesson, yes?" Luca said.

"Oh God, no, not now, Luca, _per favore_ , let the boy rest," said Gaia.

"I think a history lesson is a good way to let the boy rest," Fasano said amiably. He winked at Spears who shrugged, sighed, and added, "Why? Because it'll put him to sleep?"

He and Fasano shared a laugh.

"Don't be rude," Luca chided. "You're just mad at me still for not wanting that table you liked at _Piva_."

More laughter.

Timmy wasn't sure he wanted a history lesson, but he decided the best course of action was to humour Luca. "I'll take a history lesson from you any day." _Good job, Timmy, just suck up to everyone, why don't yo_ u. Luckily, Luca didn't call Timmy out on his obsequiousness and, instead, cleared his throat and began.

"Crema has many origin stories. Some say it had a bit to do with Ukraine, others say it goes back further to when Milano was the capital of the Roman Empire. It is even said it's an ancient Celtic settlement. But it really comes in around 1,000 A.D." Luca nodded at Violante, who flicked her hand dismissively, hiding a surreptitious smile. "It was economically, agriculturally, prosperous until it was destroyed by Federico I, also known as Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, who'd been crowned as such by Pope Adrian IV in 1155. ' _Barbarossa_ ' means 'red beard' in Italian. The Germans weren't kind to the Cremaschi. At the time, Crema was quarreling with Cremona about rights and privileges. Crema was also an ally of Milan and this was seen as a very big threat towards Cremona. So, the Cremonesi pleaded with Federico to attack Crema. They gave him a lot of money to do so.

"Federico trapped the Cremaschi inside their own city. Anyone who tried to fight and was caught, was hacked to pieces in front of their comrades. It was... very devastating and disheartening for Cremaschi. There was no way the Cremaschi would win and they knew this. Federico had his brother, Conrad, help, had the money, had troops from imperial allies and Bavaria and Pavia. When above ground warfare was unsuccessful, both sides engaged in underground warfare, digging tunnels... It was no use. The Cremaschi were soon overrun. About twenty thousand survivors were allowed to vacate Crema before the city was razed completely to the ground. There wouldn't be any reconstruction until twenty years later. So, for twenty years, the remnants of Crema consisted of ash and dust.

Timmy whistled. "Brutal."

Luca nodded. "But Crema rose up from the ash like a phoenix. After the Treaty of Venice, which led to the Peace of Constance, Crema was under reconstruction. Canals and walls and gates were built. Around this time, the famous _Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta_ was built though it wouldn't be completed until two hundred years later.  Shortly before that, though, the city was surrendered to Gian Galeazzo Visconti." At this, Luca met Violante's gaze again.

Timmy glanced between them questioningly.

"Ancestors of mine," Violante said.

" _La famiglia Visconti_ is a big, noble family here," Luca continued passively. "They held the city on and off for the next hundred years but the family never disappeared or dissipated in power."

"They kind of spread across Europe later on," Violante said. "Part of my family ended up in France, you know. Valois and surrounding areas."

"So, you're telling me that it's completely possible we have common ancestors." Timmy grinned at the notion. It made him feel even more like family.

"I wouldn't be even remotely surprised." She took a sip of her wine. "On a slightly different note, have you seen the movie _Romeo & Juliet _, the one that came out in 1968?"

Timmy nodded. "Yeah, we actually watched it in school. Olivia Hussey." Violante scoffed.

"Yes, _Olivia Hussey._ Well. The film was directed by Franco Zeffirelli, who was actually in a relationship with my grand uncle, Luchino Visconti."

Timmy frowned. "Wait. _Wait_ ." He looked at Luca as though the older man would help him draw out a memory. "Wait! That name sounds so familiar-- Oh God, why is it so familiar? He did, um, he did... He did a version of _Death in Venice,_ didn't he?"

Luca exchanged a glance with Fasano and with Violante. "Very good," he remarked. Timmy blushed, pleased with himself.

"Yeah, I don't think I watched that in school but my dad's a big fan of older Italian and French films. He showed me that one. You should like... see his movie room. He has hundreds of movies."

At that moment, Niko came out of the kitchen and began setting plates on the table.

"Oh good, just in time to avoid mentions of the Black Death," remarked Tom Dolby with a laugh. Luca gave him a dirty glance.

"I will save the best for last," Luca said, pretending to be offended. "Timothée? This-- no, not those, those are just Mediterranean style salads, but these--" He indicated a bowl of what looked sort of like tortellini, though Timmy wasn't sure that was the right word because these looked like half-moons, "--these are _tortelli cremaschi_ , or in the proper dialect, _turtèi cremasch_. This is not made anywhere else. The inside is of a sweet filling, various spices--nutmeg, salts--, candied fruits like citrus peels, raisins, amaretti biscuits - Gallina only. Amongst other things. If we had continued in our history lesson, you'd know this were big imports of the Republic of Venice, which included Crema."

" _La chiave_ ," Niko said, still setting up plates and silverware for everyone, " _è trovare il giusto bilanciamento tra lo speziato e il dolce._ "

"The key is to find the balance between spicy and sweet," Luca translated.

" _Fantastico_ ," Timmy said on a whim. Luca looked at him approvingly. "Sorry, I heard someone say it earlier."

"Kid, you were born for this," said Spears, patting Timmy on the back. Timmy felt the back of his neck grow hot.

"I would think," said Gaia, "that the key would be to make sure the raisins are softened enough and to make sure there's a balance with all the citrusy fruits that are used."

Violante laughed. "Darling, the balances depend on the family. You know this."

"Oh now you _know_ you're amongst Italians," said Dolby under his breath to Timmy, "when the biggest arguments are about food."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," came Luca's amicable reply.

"I said nothing," Dolby retorted, consuming several tortelli at once.

"Besides," said Violante loftily, "it's not about the spices or the sweetness. And it's definitely not about the citrus. We all know it's about the butter or the sage that's used."

Cries of protest came from all around the table.

Timmy ate his food, listening contentedly to their arguments in mixtures of beautiful Italian and English. He realised then that he was in love. He was in love with Luca and Dolby and Savino and Visconti and all of them. He was in love with Crema. He was in love with their food and their language and their existences. And he had no words to describe that that was what he was feeling in that moment. But he'd remember this later and look back on it with intense fondness.

***

It was early afternoon on Sunday when Luca handed Timmy a small stack of papers and said, "These are your contracts for all of your lessons."

"Lessons?" Timmy found himself repeating blankly.

"Piano, Italian--"

"Oh! Oh, right, yeah. Wow. Cool." He felt like an idiot. He took the papers. Luca beckoned him over to the table and they sat across from each other, the table appearing more vast that afternoon than the previous night when it was covered with food. There were wine glasses on the table, fresh ones, and Timmy took his in his hands but didn't drink. He was still a little hungover from the night before - not in the sense of alcoholic inebriation but social inebriation, of being part of something greater than himself and being _accepted_ for this. He wasn't treated like a star, like he was just built for fame and wealth, but like family. He was starstruck in the most humble of senses. This wasn't like being wide-eyed with awe when he first met Matthew McConaughey and Christopher Nolan. This was like...he struggled to put it all together in his head but it was perhaps like realising he'd been adopted and then finding out his adoptive family was always going to be his real family, that they _chose_ him. He didn't have to pretend, or be something else. He was malleable to their likes and needs but without ever losing himself and that was the beauty of it all. Timmy didn't know, couldn't know, just how _himself_ he was going to be allowed to be during the next couple of months. He couldn't know that he was about to venture towards a dangerous precipice and he was going to fall, and fall, and fall. That he was going to survive that fall and long to do it again.

As he sat there, listening to Luca go over basic introductions to musical pieces and Italian lessons and workout instructors, Timmy had to drag himself back into the moment lest he be forever lost in the depths of future prospects, prospects regarding only this film, only this project, only these people. He was already feeling the changes within him and he'd been in Crema for three days.

"You can choose what times to do your workouts and your Italian lessons, but music lessons must be between 2 and 4 because dear Roberto has a very particular schedule," Luca said.

"I'll do the workouts in the morning," Timmy said. "Get them out of the way. I really hate exercise." Luca looked at him and they both laughed.

"I'll introduce you to Professore Diego Cieroli tomorrow then. I know he has one...trainer...picked out for you. GianLuca Severgnini. You will like him. He is a very upbeat person."

"Oh, no," Timmy said. "Morning workouts with someone upbeat. Where's my coffee?"

"For now, there is wine." Luca tapped his own wine glass and grinning, Timmy took a sip. He liked Luca's sense of humour, how easy it was, how coy but sincere it was. Luca slid over a packet and showed Timmy where to sign. Timmy sighed as he, albeit happily, signed away 36 hours of his life to workout sessions. There was no way for him to know that he'd come to depend on those sessions to get him going for days that were expected to be particularly emotionally exhausting. He had no idea then that this GianLuca Severgnini would become witness to aggressive coping mechanisms that he'd only unleash at his daily workout sessions.

"You said you didn't remember as much piano as you thought you did, is that so?" Luca asked, glancing over another stapled packet. Timmy ran a hand over his face, sheepish, and nodded. "Then we will have you do ninety minute lessons instead of sixty. I've already spoken with Roberto about this and he's agreed."

"Ninety," Timmy repeated, giving a low whistle. "All right, all right, let's do this. What about guitar?"

"He'll teach you everything you need to know."

Timmy grabbed a pen and jotted down some notes in the margins of one of the papers. "So, you said that _Nuovo Centro_ is...located, wait... it's located on _Via Quattro_ \--"

"-- _Novembre_."

"' _Novembre_... And Solci is...?"

"Downstairs."

"Downstairs?" Timmy echoed.

"Yes. His apartment is below mine."

Timmy frowned. "Is that where I'm going to have my lessons?"

Luca shrugged and nodded. "Most likely. I do not think he would like to have these lessons in a separate studio."

Timmy thought this over. "Well, that's kinda cool actually. So, like, I can walk to _Nuovo Centro_ and here--"

"You mean you still want to have your own place, correct?"

Timmy tapped his pen on the table, a nervous habit. "If that's okay? My agent insisted on a hotel--"

Luca waved that away. "No, no, no, no, I have a better idea. I'll talk to my friend, Daniele. He owns a, a bed and breakfast that I like to rent out." Seeing the expression on Timmy's face, Luca hurried forward, "I insist,  Timothée. You will find the bed and breakfast much more comfortable than a sterile hotel room, even a hotel room here in Crema."

Timmy bit his lip. Luca just smiled at him knowingly. Luca would win every battle from there on till the end and Luca knew this even if Timmy did not. He truly was master and commander. He'd already spoken with Daniele. They'd already picked out an apartment for young Chalamet. It was in the best location possible.

"All right, okay," Timmy relented, as expected.

Luca's smile widened. "Good, good."

Timmy finished signing paperwork and setting up his schedule for the month, glad to have some structure but also enough freedom, and encouragement to use that freedom, to do things on his own as well. Luca had already made it clear that outside lessons, rehearsals and anything else pertaining to the film, Timmy wasn't expected to check in. The amount of trust Luca and his crew placed in Timmy was refreshing and made being in a foreign country he didn't quite yet understand much easier to feel at home in. He felt as though he were on the calmest of seas and that nothing would disrupt the gentle tides.

***

Mornings had begun to take on different meanings. Instead of groaning in anguish and blinking away the sunshine, instead of dragging himself out of bed with leaden feet and a reluctant heart, mornings had turned into alone time that was appreciated, time for introspection, time for self-care. Timmy woke early enough to be lazy. He lay in bed, staring at the fresco'd ceiling above him, before reaching for his phone. More messages. He read some from his mother, Lola, Giullian, Pauline, and his uncle. Will had sent him a photo of something Timmy couldn't quite make out no matter how he turned his phone.

He chatted for a bit, sent a couple dorky snaps, before sitting up. Timmy yawned noisily, stretched, grabbed a towel and a change of clothes and headed for the bathroom. The _palazzo_ was quiet and still for a morning. Timmy shut the door behind him and undressed, still yawning to himself. He caught movement in his peripherals and noticed that Luca had a full body mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Timmy stopped, hesitated, and then walked over to the mirror.

He scrutinised his reflection. _Who are you?_

He took in every detail of his appearance. Counted the freckles on his face, the moles on his neck, traced his jawline, angled his head so his hair would glint from the bathroom lighting. He scrunched up his nose and then bared his teeth, snarling at himself. _Who am I?_

He recalled a conversation he had years ago at LaGuardia. He'd been talking to this girl and she mentioned having an estranged half brother. Her half brother had reached out to her, trying to get back in touch with blood family. The girl had told Timmy that the interaction felt strange and off putting. The half brother was like an alien to her. They looked alike but had nothing in common except a parent. The brother had asked her who she was, as in what her personal self identity was. She had just responded with "a bunch of molecules," which had upset her brother. She had said she was a nihilist; she didn't see the point in seeing herself as anything but the universe's most basic existence. Timmy didn't know what happened after that, if the girl ever became close with her brother or if they'd gone separate ways, but her response stayed with him. As Timmy stood there, surveying himself in the mirror, he could see himself saying the same thing as the girl: there he was, naked, pale, gangly, a bunch of fucking molecules.

He could hear Shifman asking him a similar question: _tell me, what does it mean to be Timothée Hal Chalamet?_

Timmy cringed at hearing Shifman's voice in his head say his middle name. He'd always hated that middle name. Years and years ago, the mere mention of it had annoyed a girl he'd been trying to get with and ever since, he kind of just brushed it off. His whole name was a pretentious mess but at the same time, middle name aside, he liked it. It was memorable. In showbiz, being memorable was key.

_Just a bunch of fucking molecules though._

He lay his hands out in front of him, palms upward. Flexed his fingers. Some of his cuticles were tearing. His nails were short and uneven in places. He clenched his fingers into fists, relishing in the feel of his nails digging into his palms, the way his knuckles went beyond white. He had a reckless urge to draw blood but let his hands fall to his sides before he caved. His eyes roved over his collarbones, his chest, his nipples. He sucked in his stomach to a ridiculous degree, carelessly eyeing the way his ribs protruded grotesquely, before exhaling, and letting everything resort to its natural position.

Timmy touched his own hip bones, grabbed himself between the legs. He shook his penis in his grip, lightly touching its velvet warmth. He traced the vein down the shaft, placed a fingertip at the urethral opening, pressing down. He couldn't help but imagine someone's tongue right there, connected to him ever so intimately. It wasn't as though he'd never had blowjobs before. At the time, he had had a range of mixed reactions from _t_ _his isn't as nice as I thought it was going to be_ to _wow, that fucking rocked my world._ Looking back on those times, he realised how childish he'd been. He'd been a kid. The girls sucking him off had also been _kids_ . What did they know about...well, _anything?_

In a month's time, give or take, he'd be on set, wearing some sort of penis sock probably, being handled by a _man_ with more experience than any of his previous scene partners, whether it had been a hasty blowjob backstage at LaGuardia or kissing on set under a mistletoe. Handled by a man, tall and muscled, and filled out, married, experienced. Handled by a man who _had_ done things, had married a beautiful woman, had a child with her. Handled by a man whose mouth had probably ventured to all the wonderful places on a woman's body, leaving nothing unattended. Timmy couldn't stop the thoughts as they flowed through his mind, a swiftly moving river. Did his wife put her tongue on him in such an intimate fashion? Let her tongue glide over the cock head? Was she an artist in the bedroom like he was on stage?

_I'm just a bunch of fucking molecules compared to him._

Timmy  let out a noise of exasperation, rolled his eyes at his own ridiculousness (that was his word of the week...or year...or decade, he thought), and turned to get into the shower. Was he scared? Was he nervous? Was he looking forward to this? Yes, yes, and yes? As he turned his back on himself, he wished he had something more to give to his future scene partner. Instead, he was going to have to accept his own lankiness, his own wiry, bony frame, and hope that he never saw any semblance of disgust on his scene partner's face. It was one thing to be fully _clothed_ and to kiss and do ridiculous things while clothed, it was another thing to stand there, be fully bared to a group of people, to _that one person_ , and just go "this is it. You have to work with _this_ . You have to kiss and touch _this_."

Pauline had told him she thought Armie Hammer was very professional and respectful with his costars. Timmy appreciated the support with its hidden reassurances. His sister knew him too well. He'd never had to ask her for support; she layered it between words, minced meanings, a culmination of their relationship and history and her understanding of his contradictory nature.

What no one knew, something that Timmy hesitated to even admit to himself, was just how much he was looking forward to being touched in the way Oliver touched Elio.

When he got out of the shower, he met his reflection's stony gaze. Timmy had some pretty big demons, and bigger ones coming, but for now, his most formidable opponent was himself. He gave himself the finger.

_Fuck molecules._

***

Timmy checked in at the BnB Luca recommended though Luca insisted there would always be an apartment for Timmy at _Piazza Premoli._ It was an apartment next to  _la Torrazzo di Crema_  and was walking distance from _Premoli_. Outside, Timmy didn't know what to make of it, with the archaic clock tower across the _Duomo_ , the terracotta facade, the intricate balcony railing, but inside, the  _Tardis_ rule definitely applied: it was  _much_ bigger on the inside. It was surprisingly modern with stark white walls, sky lights, large, paned windows, freshly polished wooden floors, and sleek furniture. He had a kitchenette, and a full bedroom with two small closets. His bed was full-sized, a sleigh bed of masculine zeal. Before he'd left that morning, Luca had gifted Timmy with silken sheets and these, Timmy dropped onto the bed and stared at. Oh yeah, he was going to sleep super well that night. He set his bags onto the floor and decided to explore a little, relishing in the blue glass plates that filled the walls of the bathroom, the stylish sink, and silver-framed circular mirrors, the bookcase nook in the wall, the clean, simple kitchen. His bedroom had balcony doors that opened up to the  _piazza_. He could see of the  _Duomo_ before him. 

He had the entire place to himself.

Luca must've contacted Brian because Timmy's phone chimed and Brian had sent him a text going _so? What do you think?_

Timmy texted back. _ok this is awesome ngl_

Brian only said: _trust Luca. He knows what he's doing._

Unable to keep the smile off his face, Timmy dressed into workout clothes, combed through his hair, and left for _Nuovo_. Diego greeted him at the front desk. He was a slender man, with greying hair and glasses. He signed Timmy in, helped him complete more paperwork, asked him about his body goals. Timmy almost snarkily responded with "I desire to look like Armie Hammer" and then refrained and said Batman instead. Diego laughed, English stilted, but good enough to get the joke. He apologised and said that he had to ask these questions beforehand. It was just all part of the process. When Timmy glanced over the completed contract, he noted with delight that Diego literally put that Timmy wanted to look like Batman.

Things were just getting better and better.

Diego introduced him to his trainer, GianLuca Severgnini. GianLuca had an air of a man who had just come back from vacation and was getting ready to go again. Just as Luca had said, he was upbeat with an infectious smile surrounded by a perfectly trimmed beard. His dark eyes glittered like the bottom of the ocean. Okay, yes, it was sufficient to say he was attractive. Fucking Italians.

Diego and GianLuca spoke together for a bit, in Italian, Timmy listening in trying to catch words or phrases here and there and failing, until Diego patted Timmy's shoulder, said something that sounded like "good luck" and left. GianLuca motioned Timmy forward with a jerk of his chin. "I will show you the place," he said haltingly. The gym was gorgeous and small - it had black and white painted swirls on one wall that were done in a way so as to make them look three dimensional. There was another wall where a bunch of circles had been cut out and replaced with luminescent blue glass so the wall looked as though it were covered with bubbles. The equipment was up-to-date and spaced out enough to give each person adequate space. It was brilliantly lit. Timmy dropped his bag off by a set of lockers and crossed some mats to meet GianLuca, who was looking over some papers.

As Timmy stretched, GianLuca peppered him with questions, about eating habits, weight goals, basketball, Batman, the Bronx, every other 'b' word relating to Timmy's life. He half expected the conversation to turn into two bros broing it out over bitches and blowjobs (and he was kind of relieved when it didn't). GianLuca had two rules: 1) if any of it got to be too much, it was imperative Timmy say so. Better be safe than sorry. And 2) no cell phones allowed during the workout, even on breaks (Timmy sighed nasally at this but relented). Ten minutes into dead lifts, Timmy wanted to die. He cursed the workout gods, and every Athenian athlete to ever exist. Half way through dumbbell raises, Timmy was thinking of how to get away with murder. Almost done with push ups, Timmy was planning his own funeral. After a single pull-up, he died.

_Holy fucking shit, fuck this shit._

He was drenched in sweat in twenty minutes. GianLuca grinned at him. "Feel like giving up?" he teased.

Timmy waved him away, panting too hard to speak.

"Do a couple laps for me."

"...wh--what--"

"Not running! Just walking!"

"Oh good, because--I think--I was about to kill you--" Timmy said, laughing at the pain in his abs (which made things worse), his arms like jelly, his heart threatening to fight its way out of his chest.

_Fuck all of this. I'm goin' home._

He wasn't serious but he was tempted to _be_ serious. Throwing his arms behind his head, trying to gulp down bouts of air, Timmy paced around the gym's perimeter. After lap two, he grabbed his water bottle and emptied it, refilled it, and drank about half, before embarking upon lap number three. Timmy kept GianLuca in his eyesight at all time, watching his trainer turn to speak with Diego. GianLuca was very attractive - he had a very straight, very prominent nose, shimmery black hair that was neatly styled back, thick eyebrows that framed his face, a wicked grin... Timmy looked away, as though afraid he'd get caught doing something naughty, and focused on his pacing, on slowing down his heart rate. He wished he had his music, but alas, no cell phones, and he hadn't thought to bring a separate MP3 player of any kind.

When he finished his fifth lap, GianLuca was waiting for him. "Now I'm going to teach you how to do tricep dips--"

Timmy blanched. "Are you joking?"

GianLuca burst out laughing. "Yes, yes, I joke with you." He clasped Timmy on the shoulder. "Don't want to overdo it. You are free now, eh? See you tomorrow?"

Timmy let out a breath of relief. "Fucking hell, man." He lingered just long enough for GianLuca to give him some diet advice: eat everything.

***

He made it home by 11:30, showered again, and decided he needed a nap before heading to piano. As he settled into bed, he checked his messages again.

He read Will's first: _so how are you settling there in Crema?_

Timmy exhaled, feeling loose, excited, anxious. Encompassed. He typed back: _great, i don't think i wanna come home haha_

When Will didn't respond immediately, Timmy sent out a snap, laughed at a snap of Kristina half-twerking to a Nicki Minaj song, and then dozed off. He woke just in time to dress simply and run to Luca's _palazzo_. He ached already and he slowed down when he saw people loading furniture and smaller items onto a moving truck - props for the villa. Some people waved at him and he waved back before entering Luca's building and turning towards the apartment that housed the genius Roberto Solci. He knocked and Solci answered.

"Hello, hello, hello," he said graciously, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, moving to the side to let Timmy in. Timmy glanced around at the simple apartment, taking in the vastly different style from Luca's above. Solci was definitely more conservative, choosing neutral colour schemes and sculptures and portraits of musical instruments and flowers as opposed to housing actual plants. But in the middle of Solci's living room was a Steinway and Timmy didn't know shit about pianos, but he knew that Steinway was a good one.

"That's...that's a, uh, really nice piano," he said as lamely as he felt. Solci smiled, which made him appear a lot less strict and this soothed Timmy's nerves a little.

"It's not bad," Solci said modestly. "A 1927. A good year. So, let us sit and talk." He had two Scandinavian lounge chairs propped up by the wall behind the piano, separated only by a tiny end table. As Timmy settled down in a chair, drawing a knitted blanket over himself, Solci disappeared and reappeared with two water glasses.

"I don't really know how to play the piano," Timmy confessed. "I mean, I _mean_ , I can read music, of course. I love music and it's kind of given at LaGuardia -- that's my high school, it's a performing arts school -- that you know how to read music. I've had to sing before so I know how to read music like _that_."

Solci nodded. "You have any favourite singers? Composers?"

"I listen to mostly rap and hiphop but uh...I grew up with some Hebrew songs and some of the classic rock stuff my mother listened to around the house. And my sister, Pauline, is into weird indie sh--stuff that is kind of ...groovy at times." Timmy felt a little self-conscious so he added, "I mean, I enjoy a diverse array of music, you know? I like everything from Frank Sinatra to Tchaikovsky."

Solci was quiet for a second before he said, "So, no Brahms? Stravinsky? Vivaldi? Saint-Saëns?  Liszt?" He didn't sound exactly judgmental or worried, just curious, trying to figure out where Timmy stood in the world of music.

Timmy shrugged. "I mean, I know most of those names. I kinda have to with my upbringing and schooling. I know a friend of mine said that Liszt was like... the rock star of the piano world." Solci chuckled at this.

"That is one way of putting it, I suppose. Well, I'll be teaching you some Liszt. He had a lot to say about Steinway pianos, too. Do you know any of the keys on a piano? The pedals?"

Timmy blew out some air. "I know where middle C is...? I know that the black keys are ...uh, flats? Or...no, that's not right. They're like... half-steps, right? Like, if you have a white key, D, the black key next to it would be... D _sharp_ or...or E _flat_ . Like I..." he was trying to explain and feeling as though he was failing miserably, "like I get how they work. I just don't know how to explain them." Solci made a hand gesture to indicate not bad and quizzed Timmy some more, and then had Timmy splay his hands, stretching his fingers, seeing how many keys Timmy could reach with ease. He went over proper hand positioning as well as posture and said that, later, as Timmy grew more comfortable with playing, he could relax a little more and improvise things. Then, he went over the keys. Timmy joked around a little, playing _Mary had a Little Lamb_ and _Heart & Soul _, just little things that he remembered playing with his mother over a decade ago. What was so great about Solci was that he was never impatient or fussy. He let Timmy have his fun. He let Timmy laugh and play around every so often, only gently nudging him back on track if time was slipping away. Timmy listened attentively and by the end of his first lesson, he could adequately play several double octave scales and their accompanying arpeggios without much finger slipping.

At the end of the lesson, Solci informed Timmy that he'd have a keyboard delivered to his apartment tomorrow morning for practise purposes but to remember that a keyboard isn't quite the same as a piano and that he still expected Timmy to work on his finger strength. With a small stack of practise sheet music in his arms, Timmy meandered home.  

****

Timmy brushed his teeth, rinsed his face, and got into bed. Like clockwork, he had to check his phone. Alfred, Jake, a few others, had sent him more messages.

Will still hadn't responded though and this depressed Timmy a little.

It didn't occur to him until much later, as he entwined himself with Luca's silken sheets, that maybe his over-enthusiastic response about not wanting to return to NYC wasn't exactly what Will had wanted to hear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> molte grazie a Carla e Daniele per le traduzioni


	3. signing your soul over to satan requires exactly four phone calls, two encouraging conversations with your wife, an eye roll from your agent and a partridge in a pear tree

                                                                                                                               "We spend our lives running our fingers  
                                                                                                                                                 down the lists in directories,                          
                                                                                                                                             looking for our real names, our  
                                                                                                                                                           permanent addresses.   
                                                                                                                                                              No man is an island?   
                                                                                                                                                                        [soft laughter]  
                                                                                                                                   Perhaps that was true a long time ago,  
                                                                                                                                                                 before the Ice Age.  
                                                                                                                                               The glaciers have melted away,  
                                                                                                                                                        and now we're all islands  
                                                                                                                                                                      parts of a world  
                                                                                                                                                                               made   
                                                                                                                                                                                   of   
                                                                                                                                                                                islands   
                                                                                                                                                                                  only.   
                                                                                                                                       -   Lieutenant Corby, _Fear and Desire_

                                                                                                                                                                            
                                                                                         

               

**June 2014**

"Hello?"

"Guadagnino has a script for you." Brandon Liebman - straight to the point, as always.

"...seriously? Awesome! I'm down!"

Throat clearing. Armie could hear Brandon trying to figure out what to say next, so what it was going to be, it wasn't going to be good. Brandon was a man who was on top of everything: his actors' careers, his life, his scheduling, his materialism, and his words. For him to hesitate before continuing was a sign of something else and whatever that was...whatever it could be...made Armie feel a very familiar twinge of apprehension.

"You're going to want to read it first."

"...is it bad?"

More hesitation. "No... it's a superb script. Just completed, too. Just... You'll want to read it first. Evelyn'll drop it off tomorrow." Okay, maybe not _always_ to the point...

"If it's fantastic, why can't I just accept now?"

Brandon bit back a sigh. There was an eyeroll in there somewhere probably. "Armie. Armie. Just trust me on this one, okay?"

A moment of silence. Things usually go 0-60 in half a second flat. But this was the reverse. This was 500 miles an hour dropping to that big egg, that big, fat zero in even less time. Zilch. Nada.

"Trust me," Brandon repeated. More suffocating silence, like Armie was trying to compose himself, but he had no idea what he was composing. What could possibly be so different about a script that even his top-of-the-world agent was struggling to find the perfect diction? Armie's fingers were sweating around his phone. Then:

"Okay.

            Okay...

                           I trust you."

 

 

 

 

 

"Hello, this is Luca. Please tell me when you can if you read the script. I think it is perfect for you. I text you the best number to contact me. _L'Italia sta aspettando. Ciao_."

 

 

 

 

**February 2016**

"...no."

"'No'?" she repeated and he couldn't tell if it was because she hadn't heard him over the music Nick was blasting in the kitchen.

"No," he reiterated.

"'No,'" she repeated.

They solidly met each other's gaze, like two chess players facing off before the final match. But then his face fell into something soft, abashed, worried. She quickly jumped in to the rescue, as she always did.

"It's okay. You have other projects."

"You're okay with me not taking on this one?"

She smiled wanly. "I don't know why you wouldn't but I trust you."

_It's too much. I am not good enough for that._

"You think I should take the role."

Elizabeth's smile turned into a grin. "What gave me away?" Grin turned into giggling.

"You give yourself away."

"Awww... but no, _think_ about it, Armie. Niki would be so happy."

Armie groaned. "Why? Because he's Italian?"

Elizabeth's smile turned into a perplexed line, eyebrows furrowed. "No! He's a Guadagnino fan."

Armie frowned. "Okay, so why didn't I know this be _fore_ I said no?" He turned towards the kitchen. "Hey, Niki! _Niki_!"

The music was impossibly loud and Nick was lost in his own culinary world. Armie and Elizabeth met each other's gaze again. They could read each other without speaking. Elizabeth laughed. Armie sighed.

 

**March 2016**

"Luca-- _Luca_ \--I'm, hold on--honey, can you hold this for me? Thanks--" Armie handed a bag and a painting over to Elizabeth who took them gingerly.

"Tyler's coming," she whispered, glancing at the phone pressed to his ear. He nodded.

"Yeah, I know, I--uh, I'll make it quick-- _shit_ \--"

Armie was there to support his friend. It was an awesome event - Tom's had been almost renovated to look like some hipster-chic art joint. Paintings hung on the walls with little labels that read "price upon request" and the huge windows on the front of the store were covered in sheer drapes that had multi-coloured paint splatters on them, each splatter so perfectly positioned, they looked like little suns. The store, itself, already had the rustic feel needed to complement the artistic aura of the show, with its wooden bar, and cozy, simple la-z boy chairs, all swathed in pleasing yellow lighting.

Elizabeth took the painting and the shopping bag over to their chairs. Armie turned away from the oncoming company to speak quickly and quietly into the phone,

"Luca, I can't talk right now--I'm at a friend's art show and--yes, I read the script. Yes, I read it again. I just--I just don't think I can do something like that--"

He listened intently.

"No, no, it's not the...it's not _that_ , it's just... it's very...intimate in a way I don't know..." Armie was mentally cursing himself. He was usually way more eloquent than this, but with Tyler and Walter only a couple yards away, with his beautiful wife glancing over at him questioningly, a tad anxiously even, and with a director on the phone, it was currently extremely difficult to articulate just why he couldn't take on such a role. He was overstimulated, he knew that. "It's not--no, I like that, I like the fact that it's so...not Hollywood--Hold on, please?"

Tyler had arrived, suave, excitement in his eyes. "Ash's on his way," he said. Then he gestured to the man next to him. "You've met Walter C. May, right?"

Armie graciously shook hands with Walter, a young man with an initially ambiguous ethnicity (later, Armie found out he was Mexican), Brad Pitt lips, and a slight swagger. "Only over social media," Armie said, smiling.

"Nice to meet you, man and please, just call me Walter or Walt or ' _migo._ Contrary to popular belief, the 'C' doesn't actually stand for _cabrón_ but I don't wanna take any chances." Walter pulled Armie close and gave him a brief hug with a pat on the back, which was a little awkward considering the phone pressed to Armie's ear.

"No, man, pleasure's all mine. I love your work," he said.

"Thank you, thank you. And--yeah, thank you for hosting this event, too. Ty's a talented motherfucker."

Luca was talking in his ear again. Armie held up a finger. "Sorry, I--just one moment, please? I won't be long." He shifted the phone closer to his mouth. "Luca, I'm--I really can't talk right now-"

Tyler and Walter were talking to each other and Armie wanted to tune in to what they were saying, it was so distracting, but at the same time, he wanted to give Luca every second of undivided attention - both feats were impossible and Armie was torn. "Can I call you back?" he said, hated how he sounded almost pleading. He knew Tyler would understand if he left to have this conversation but at the same time, the pit in his stomach told him that he wasn't ready to have this conversation. It would take too much out of him, saying no, saying no, and saying no. He knew Luca wasn't going to accept no. Armie knew he'd be persuaded. He wasn't ready to be persuaded. Not when he was out somewhere trying to show some support for one of the few loves in his life. He glanced over at Elizabeth. She didn't quite smile at him, but he knew that look was one of encouragement. He gave her a little smile in acknowledgment, turned away to speak more earnestly into the phone.

He was on a tight wire, he was. One where netting wasn't guaranteed.

When Luca finally relented, saying he'd wait for a call back and that Armie could take all the time he needed (it was reverse psychology, wasn't it, especially with filming only a couple months away), Armie reluctantly let the line go dead, knowing how late it was in Italy, knowing that Luca, though not privy to going to bed early, had stayed up even beyond his own bedtime to make the call, knowing that he was only delaying the inevitable.

It was time to be in the present.

And the present demanded he hang out with Ash, Tyler, Elizabeth, Niki, Walter and whoever else would cross his path that night.

Tyler looped an arm around Armie's shoulders, as best he could, anyway, given their height differences.

"I'm getting engagement party flashbacks," Armie said.

Tyler groaned. "Oh, fuuuuck no, I thought you wouldn't bring that up again."

Armie laughed. "Hey, you were the one telling everyone I was your most famous client."

"I was drunk outta my mind."

"I don't regret it," Armie said, in a moment of solemnity. He was often struck by somber moods that encouraged him to say the weirdest, most ridiculous things at strange times.

"You better not."

They looked out across the store, all of Tyler's splatter art situated just perfectly on the walls and countertops. There was even a car that Tyler had doused in paint. It was pretty cool. "Not many people can get by making art," he commented.

"Ugh, you're getting sappy on me and you're not even drunk. Come on, let's go join Elizabeth."

****

"I read the book," she admitted a little coyly. Armie's fingers danced over her feet and up her bare calf. "It's one of the sexiest books I've ever read."

"You liked that, huh?" he asked, mirroring her coyness.

"I like the script, too."

"It has a couple sex scenes."

"Mmm...I know."

Armie stared at her, taking in her sculpted brows, her lips, unglossed and slightly chapped, the little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She often reminded him of a lioness, graceful, unapologetic, the real leader of the pride. She had a gaze that was captivating and could speak a thousand words in so little. Or was that because he knew her so well? He could read her from across a room? Know her mood the moment she walked through the door? Armie didn't really believe in soulmates; the idea seemed too romantic, too idealistic and Armie was roughened up by disappointments and let downs his entire life. He admired people who could keep a positive outlook even in spite of their own personal trials and tribulations, but he wasn't one of those types. Tyler was a love of his life, sure, but Elizabeth and Harper were _the_ loves of his life. If soulmates existed, Elizabeth and Harper were his real soulmates.

"Are we really coming on ten years?" he asked, yanking himself from reverie. In a typical sitcom relationship, a marriage that stemmed from teen years, someone like him would have been expected to forget such a thing. He'd be portrayed as the somewhat good-looking but stereotypically inept, dumb husband (actually, in sitcoms, husbands were typically overweight and frumpy, portrayed as former frat boys who couldn't let go of their third rate college football stints). But that stereotype was bullshit. Because the solid relationships involved people who cared, who remembered. Armie always remembered. He was one of the good ones, Elizabeth was always reminding him. She always knew when he was falling into one of his usual pits of self-loathing. They didn't happen often, but it was like she was always there, this shining light in his life, a safety net to always catch him, always bring him back. And he hoped he was the same for her, that he was just as good for her as she was for him. He'd always remember.

"Ten years of knowing you, six years of having been proclaimed yours," Elizabeth said lightly. "You should do the film," she added too smoothly for it to be an afterthought. "I wouldn't mind having an excuse to go to Italy for our anniversary."

Armie laughed. It was a little joke they had. "You know we don't need excuses to do anything." He shifted on the sofa, leaned over her, taking in the scent of her body wash mixed with a scent that was purely her. She kissed him lightly.

"Do the film, Armie."

He kissed her again before settling his long, lanky self between her legs, his head on her chest. "There's something about it that's ...telling me no."

Her fingers were in his hair. "Well, it is very intimate. I think you should do it though."

"And the sex scenes?"

Elizabeth yanked playfully on his hair and Armie groaned in pleasure. "They don't bother me. I've never worried about you doing them."

"That's such a lie."

"Of course it's a lie. But I haven't worried about you doing them in years, at least.”

Armie sighed, allowing himself to breathe through the surfacing insecurities, memories of times he fucked up, was clumsy, stumbled around doing everything wrong - and not because he ever wanted to, but he was a man of impulse. So. Utterly. Impulsive. “I’ve learned my lessons. Refined my tastes.”

Elizabeth tugged on his hair again and Armie laughed, trying to keep the bitterness out of it. "I'm serious. You know my type. You are my type, Liz." He was the only one who was allowed to call her that.

"So, why won't you do the film?"

Armie shrugged the best he could while in such a position. "It requires a lot of emotional vulnerability, which I can do... I just don't know if I could show that in such an atmosphere, with someone else so... _intimately_." He frowned. "Come to think of it, I don't even know who lead is."

"His name is Tim--Timothy--Timoth--I can't say his name," Elizabeth said. "It has a little accent over the first 'e'."

Armie glanced up. "'The first 'e'? How many 'e's are in his name?"

"Like five." She chuckled at that. "Two. It looked like Timothy but with an accent. I think he's French. Pass me your phone; we can Google him."

Armie scrounged in his pocket for his phone and handed it to her. She unlocked it, pulled up Chrome, and typed in the closest she could remember to being Timothée's name. "Timothy...I'm just going to say it that way...Chala...may? Shal-uh-may. Must be French. Yes, he's French. He's kind of pretty." She handed Armie the phone and he swiped through images on Google.

"He looks like the pretentious artsy type. Luca said he's from New York."

"Better than L.A.," Elizabeth noted with a smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

"He was in _Interstellar_ ," Armie said, reading down IMDB. "That was an amazing film. But I really don't remember... oh. He played Matthew McConaughey's son. So, a small role. Though in a Nolan film. Not bad, not bad. Nolan picks his actors very, very carefully."

"So does Guadagnino."

Now Armie's expression was sharp. "How do you know that?"

Elizabeth caressed his hair, tracing a trail down to his neck. "Because he so desperately wants you in this movie."

Armie turned onto his stomach and opened up Elizabeth's bathrobe. He kissed her stomach. "Not as desperately as I want you right... _now_." She rolled her eyes but her breath hitched when his mouth touched her between the legs.

****

"Take the role," Liz -- Elizabeth to everyone else -- said. She put his phone on the table and stared at him. "It's been over a week. Call him. I know you want to do it."

Armie couldn't meet her stare. He'd finished re-reading the book the night before. The spine had been broken, pages dog-eared, passages highlighted. To be honest, as much as he enjoyed reading, he didn't read enough and when he did, it wasn't often literature like that. He'd read some Vonnegut for a film he did a while ago and because of that, had gone through most of Vonnegut's works in the month that followed. He read Russian literature, stuff his father had lying around the house, and the other occasional classic, like _Catcher in the Rye, Of Mice and Men_ , and so on. He'd read in school because he had to. But he'd never read anything like _Call Me By Your Name_. The book had terrified him as he went through it. He wasn't keen on admitting this to his wife though he didn't know why.

He couldn't escape her though. She knew him too well. She could see something inside of him, that something that terrified Armie. He exhaled. He hated that something, hated it with a passion and wished it would disappear beneath the waves once and for all. He hated finding anything scary short of rollercoasters and the wild wilderness. He wasn't a masochist.

He grabbed his phone before he could stop himself, glanced at Elizabeth in defeat, shrugged and said, "I'll talk to him about it."

Elizabeth knew better than to smile in triumph. The die could still be cast in his favour. But her kiss on his cheek was confident and reassuring and Armie had a deep-seated feeling that she knew he'd lost. She disappeared from the room, leaving behind only the scent of her perfume.

" _Ciao_ , Luca..."

They surfed past formalities and informalities before Luca cut to the chase: "Armie, what do you think?"

"It's a beautiful, beautiful script, Luca. I think I sobbed a little.” Armie let out a breathless chuckle. “The parallels are astounding and Mr. Perlman's speech at the end... I think that'll forever change me, even if all I do is read it. I love the decision to keep Mrs. Perlman true to the book - I've learned enough from Liz that making the mother the villain isn't something this world needs right now."

"Armie, I want you to experience this. Here. In _Italia_. You are the perfect Oliver."

"I don't--"

"It's not just in- _-with_ your appearance, Armie," Luca said and Armie could just see him waving a hand. "I think Oliver and his interaction with Elio will bring into light the best in you. This performance may not just be performance. It is...It is a chance to be real. To be..." Luca paused as though trying to think of the words, "...to find parts of yourself that are hidden and to surface them, ah, bring them up to the surface and acknowledge them. Make them real by acknowledging them."

"I don't know if I have the acting prowess to be that intimate with...a young man in front of all those cameras. I don't mean in regard to my heterosexuality. It...actually, I don't think it would truly matter if Elio was male or female, Luca. There are a lot of subtleties in this film, subtleties I don't think I understand, that...I don't think I can make believable on screen."

Luca paused. "Are the, ah, subtleties unknown to you? Or do they frighten you?"

"No, they..." _Fuck_ . Armie gritted his teeth, glanced towards the doorway Elizabeth had disappeared through, and breathed through his nose like an angry bull. "I don't know, no, why would they scare me? I've done intimate roles, Luca, you know that." But what was so different from this type of intimacy and other types of intimacy? Was it _truly, actually_ the vulnerability of Oliver that scared him so much or was it something more basic, like how he and young Chalamet would be naked in bed together, whispering sweet _whatevers_ at each other? He'd never done a sex scene before. Was he really that fucking basic that he was terrified of fucking _sex scenes_ ? Sure, everyone said they were annoying and uncomfortable with all the cameras and crew around you, but so what? Most actors already had quite the repertoire of sex scenes under the belt. Why was he so keen on delaying the inevitable? Because Elizabeth didn't care for them? Because he, himself, didn't care for them? Because he had a child and didn't want his daughter to be made fun of on his behalf? Actors had children all the time. And those actors still did crazy, weird, horrific, terrifying shit on screen all the time. That was probably what separated the _good_ from the _great_ , wasn't it? Luca had to know. Luca probably _already_ knew. But Armie still had to say it out loud. "The whole thing fucking terrifies me," he said, half-whispering.

"To find yourself, you must do what terrifies you," Luca said sagely, sounding like he was quoting Buddha or Gandhi or Yoda or-

Armie hated it when people said stuff like that to him. At the same time, he wanted to be convinced.

"'There is war in this forest,'" Luca intoned. Armie found himself listening carefully. "'Not a war that has been fought, or one that will be, but any war. And the enemies who struggle here do not exist, unless we call them into being. This forest, then, and all that happens now is outside history. Only the unchanging shapes of fear - and doubt - and death - are from our world. These soldiers that you see keep our language and our time, but have no other country but the mind.' That is from a movie I rather like to talk about called _Fear and Desire._ It is a Kubrick film--"

"What, really?" Armie asked, a little surprised. "With a name like that?"

He could almost see Luca nodding. "It is an early film of Kubrick. His first and one of my favourite. It was in cinema in 1953. It is figurative, an anti-war allegory, but I like to apply it to humanity overall. You are fighting a war in your mind, Armie, on foreign soil that is your mind. Also, in your mind, you are the enemy _and the enemy_ , you are both opponents. You are also the victim, the, the...collateral damage, the prisoner of war, the civilian. There is something you are fighting. You say it is fear. But I think another part of you says it is desire. These two fight in the country in your mind. But they are one and the same. There is no country but one country. But the two emotions do not know this so we think they are opposites but they are not. They are complements, friends even, though they think they are foes. I know you fear this role but I suspect you desire it also. Am I correct in thinking this?"

Armie felt like Luca had grabbed his heart and sliced it open and was pointing to the insides and going _see? See what's inside of you? I told you. I told you it's there and you did not believe me. Believe me now because I see it and now you must see it unless you are blind. You are not blind._

"What do I desire then?" he asked, almost a little resentfully.

"Challenge, perhaps? To become greater than you are? To be someone you could never be? To discover the possibilities of you?"

Luca was the Grand Master of the Human Condition. Armie was walking into a trap, being led in by a delicious trail of cheese, only he knew it, he was aware of it, and he, begrudgingly, liked it. He liked being seen by Luca. He liked how Luca paid attention to him, to the little details, the things that mattered, things everyone else brushed away as unimportant, strange, just another quirk of being an artist (not that Armie considered himself an artist, he thought himself to be lacking in that department, though he did honestly believe he worked very hard to be as good as he could be in every single role - he was not one to half-ass things, something that drew Elizabeth to him).

"Come to Italy," Luca continued, knowing that Armie was waging an internal war against himself (something he and Chalamet would bond over later). "Come to Italy and take what is hidden and bring it out. You will feel better afterward. Italy is crying for you. You need to be in Crema. Come out a month early."

This startled Armie. "Come out a month early...?"

"Yes, to meet Timothée. I fell in love with him. I think you will, too."

Armie highly doubted that.

"Why a month?"

Luca sighed, as though the answer to the universe was so obvious that it was so _boring_ a question for Armie to ask, like _goddamn, Armie, don't you know_? "Because Italy is a person and you must meet this person and fall for them."

"I've been to Italy," Armie protested. A month, a whole fucking month just chilling in the Italian countryside? Sure, okay, that was a dream, but he was still a father, a husband, and a working man. Like, _God,_ he had bills to pay (in fact, he needed to pay his credit card bill...since he switched banks recently... _shit_ ). "I can't afford to be out there for a month before filming..."

"It'll be paid for--" Luca began.

"No, man, that's... is that really necessary?"

"Yes," Luca said firmly, the forever keystone in the great cathedral of life. "A full month, Armie. Most expenses paid. I insist. You must meet Timothée Chalamet. You will fall in love with him. He is very talented, very graceful and very...very humble."

Despite not knowing the kid, despite knowing that Luca knew more than he did, Armie also doubted that as well.

"Fear and desire," Luca went on. "They must meet and shake hands. It may be a truce. It may be a compromise. Or it may be a marriage. You will see."

"I don't understand what any of that means."

"You will see."

Armie sighed again.

"I will see you in Italy," Luca said. "Next month."

"Don't you think--"

"Armie?"

"Yes?"

"Let go."

Armie's first instinct was to fight. But instead, all he said was, "Okay. I trust you."

The call ended.

Armie lowered his phone and it took him a moment to realise that his heart was racing unbelievably fast.

****

Armie set the box down in the garage but as he did so, he tripped, and the box landed heavily on the cement and tipped over. Elizabeth laughed a little at his mishap and he nudged into her playfully as he bent down to pick up the box's contents. "What is this?" He picked up a small fake tree in a small, fake pot.

Elizabeth glanced over. "A partridge in a pear tree."

"Are you serious?"

"Yah, it was window decor from Christmas."

"You seriously put this in the bakery window?"

Elizabeth snorted. "You didn't notice?"

"Why would I notice?"

Elizabeth play-frowned. "Ohhhhhh, maybe because this was a joint project? Between two lovely people who created something beautiful out of their desire for one another and...and, uh, food?"

Armie groaned. "Oh God, you sound like Luca."

Elizabeth smiled cheekily, all teeth and lips, eyes scrunched tight in a childish manner. Armie glared at her. She started laughing. "You said yes, didn't you!"

"Oh for fuck's sake."

"It's one of the sexiest books I've ever read."

"That's the six hundredth time you've said that this week."

Elizabeth bent down to help him pack up the box. She kissed his cheek. "Hey, it's not every day a wife gets to see her super sexy husband make out with another man on screen."

"You like that, huh?"

She was all smirks and smiles and unspoken taunts. He loved it and hated it when she was like this - it was undeniably frustrating and utterly adorable and it made him crazy for her. "Maaaaybe a little more than I thought I would?"

"Liar."

"You know it."

"I love you, too."

****

"How the hell did you get him to say yes?"

"Simple. I talked to him about fear and desire being the same."

Brandon rolled his eyes. "I don't get you artsy types sometimes."

"Thankfully, that is not your job."


	4. i'd like to take a minute, before we say later, i'll explain how i became the prince of a town called crema

  Time past and time future                
   Allow but a little consciousness.  
    To be conscious is not to be in time  
      But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,  
       The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,  
         The moment in the draughty church at smokefall  
           Be remembered; involved with past and future.  
            Only through time time is conquered.                          
                           -- _Burnt Norton,_ T. S. Eliot

_how's it all going_

Timmy's phone buzzed so loudly, he jerked awake and for a moment, he forgot where he was. Heart in his throat, he rubbed his eyes and squinted in the sunlight peering through the numerous windows in his flat, the way the light made his bed frame glimmer, the way it reflected off a mirror in the corner, the diamond-cut glass of the doorknobs. He had to remind himself that he was in Italy, that he was in Crema, that was taking a month of study and leisure to adapt to a role he'd been granted for a small, independent film with a director who was hellbent on changing his life. _Italia, Italia, Italia._ The name got lost on its way out of Timmy's mouth so he just sat up, blinking some to wipe away the sleep from his eyes. He reached for his phone, checked the time and groaned. It was 7:45, just fifteen minutes before his first alarm was due to go off.

The text was from Brian. Mentally, Timmy did the math and figured it wasn't late for his agent, who was in L.A. Nice of him to check in every so often. Timmy hoped it was because Brian genuinely cared about his well-being and wasn't just worried that Timmy was going to fuck it all up.

_Stop it_ , he told himself, hating the resurfacing of insecurities he'd been fighting since he was thirteen. Some things never change. His fingers hovered over the keypad, thinking of how to respond. When a response didn't come to him immediately, he threw off the covers, shivered in the cool air, and got up and headed into the kitchen.

_'How's it going'?_ he thought to himself. How _was_ it going? It'd been a little more than a week. Had anything changed? He got himself a class of water and stared at his phone over the rim of the glass. Giulia had gotten him an orchid that was sitting on the counter. It was starting to look a little sad and Timmy sighed. Luca would be so disappointed. He walked over to it and dumped the rest of his water into the pot before turning back to his phone.

_i think everything is going okay_ , he began, _i feel like i'm on a study vacation thing_

Brian's reply was almost immediate, like he'd had his response already typed to go. _Luca says you're doing really well and that you're showing spectacular promise. He's also made positive remarks on your attitude._

Timmy bristled at this. It wasn't that he was displeased with Luca's high opinion of him but a familiar spike of anxiety struck him as he thought of Luca and Brian talking about him. It reminded him of the few times his mother talked with his high school teachers...those weren't always pleasant conversations. He knew he should have expected a sort of verbal report card. Luca and Brian were acquaintances, if not friends; Brian's partner, Peter, was part of the _Call Me by Your Name_ project, too. Connections, connections, connections. But still... it wasn't as though Luca had said anything bad, right?

_i'm happy to hear it,_ he said, shivering again. He tried to shrug off the anxiety.

_Don't worry_ , came Brian's faster-than-the-speed-of-light reply, _Luca doesn't say much about you. I think he's keen on giving you the privacy he feels you need._

_that's really cool of him but it's ok_ , Timmy said, trying to feel confident.

_Hang in there and keep up the good work._

_i won't let you down_ (this had become his usual sign off with Brian, it seemed, like a repetitious eagerness to never disappoint the man he represented, the man who also represented him in turn)

The conversation ended leaving Timmy feeling a little winded. He pursed his lips, thought about calling Will since Will was probably still awake. Then he decided against it. He wanted to talk about Will's latest instagram post, another of Timmy, wanted to delve into that a bit, find out the whys but that was probably unsafe territory. Still, Timmy longed to hear Will wax poetic about him, longed to be praised by him, because he knew it would be genuine and real and he still felt like he was living a dream. Will knew him. Will had seen him at his worst. And yet still thought so well of him. Timmy craved that kind of attention.

He was violently yanked from his reverie when the alarm on his phone finally went off.

"Mother _fucker_."

****

Okay, so living by yourself in a pretty apartment definitely had its perks. Like sure, it was fun to have roommates and Kristina and Giullian were beautiful and fun and annoying and he loved them dearly, but having an entire place to yourself for an entire month? Two months? Three fucking months?

It was fucking _brilliant._

Timmy sat, in his boxers, a blanket draped over his shoulders, on his sofa, laptop propped up on a stack of coffee table books (a massive compilation of National Geographic photos, a celebration of Diane von Furstenberg's 2012 collection, and a gargantuan encyclopedia of orchids), and had _J. Edgar_ playing, again, on mute. A scene came up where Armie Hammer's character, Clyde Tolson, demonstrates quite a bit of jealousy towards the female attention Leonardo DiCaprio's character, John Edgar Hoover, was receiving. "The nation's admiration is more than enough for me." Timmy paused the movie and stared at Armie's face. It was so utterly clean and young, completely unlike the Armie Timmy saw in more recent interviews and photos. He bit, thoughtfully, anxiously, into a bracelet on his right wrist, lost in a quiet chaos in his mind. He couldn't sort through the chaos to really understand what he was truly thinking, feeling everything mingled into everything else and had no real definition. It was a constant buzzing, almost as frustratingly insistent as static, but not as negative. He didn't feel badly. He just felt confused...in a neutral sort of way, if that made any real sense.  

He stretched against the back of the sofa, arms in the air above him, ribs loudly prominent and then, with a shiver, he folded in on himself again and drew the blanket around him. He put on Spotify, started a Kid Cudi album and then sat back again. He grabbed his phone and opened Instagram.

Brian had been right: Luca didn't believe in parenting him. He only occasionally checked in to make sure Timmy was studying adequately and he never went behind Timmy's back and talked to his teachers about his lessons. He always asked Timmy up front - _how are you doing? How far are you in Italian? Should we practise? How are your fingers doing for piano? How do you feel after that workout?_

This encouraged Timmy to be forthcoming and honest. He hated the word _gli_ with a passion and was eternally grateful that he would never have to use the word _cinquecentocinquantacinque._ Didn't like sixteenth note triplets in music. And fuck the gym forever and always. But he loved the casualty of Italian, and the way he could sort of slant his voice a little and be almost lyrically lazy with the language. He liked how it didn't get stuck in his throat like French, but also disliked the simplicity. French was poetically demanding, using many more parts of the mouth and throat and, at times, Timmy appreciated that. He not only remembered the names of the crew, but could also say their last names with more ease. He liked crossing his hands over the piano, enjoyed the fact that he understand enough to know how to show off, could get his fingers to zip along fast passages. He liked...okay, well, no, he hated the gym. There was nothing good about that. Except maybe the fact that he was liking how strong he felt day to day.

But still. The muscle tone and strength still did not make up for all of his pain and suffering in that damn gym. _Fuck Severgnini,_ he thought, almost affectionately. His trainer was great. A sarcastic hardass, but great and Timmy was grateful but that didn't mean the gym was his idea of fun. Fuck Cerioli. Fuck _Nuovo Centro_.

"There are other ways I can get into shape," he had whined once. Severgnini just laughed.

"I'm sure there is plenty of time for sex," he said and Timmy choked back a lung. "Now is not that time."

Why _hadn't_ Timmy thought of sex being an option? Because he'd only been there a week, week and a half, maybe? His Italian still sucked but hey, at least he could try practising with the locals. Timmy thought about this after his most recent Italian lesson where he'd fucked up pretty much all the Italian articles. He was learning via a mixture of practical usage and phonetics and it was a tad disorienting.

_Practise, practise, practise._

"No," his Italian teacher scolded him once. "It is _perfect_ practise makes perfect. You will not be perfect if you practise badly."

_Isn't there no such thing as perfection anyway_? Timmy wanted to add, addressing the futility of practise being endgame but he already knew how his teacher would respond to that so he said nothing.

Timmy was learning that a lot of his viewpoints, old adages, idioms, proverbs, whatever, were slowly being picked apart one by one. He was used to seeing the world as so black and white and it was rapidly filing itself into grey, a whole spectrum of greys, each shade almost imperceptibly different from the ones adjacent to it.

He didn't know it then, but he was already changing. Danes had indicated this would happen. By the end of it, Timmy would be someone kew, he'd shed his old skin that was filled with dust of New York City grime, LaGuardia teenage drama, parental neglect. He didn't know who he would be by the end of it.

But there was plenty of time to find out.

***

There was a packet in front of his door. Timmy picked it up, glanced at it, unlocked his door, and threw himself into his flat. He tossed his keys onto the table, set his duffel down on the floor, and collapsed onto the sofa, flipping through the packet. The words blurred before him and he rubbed his eyes, which didn't help, before he resigned himself to sitting up again. The last page required his signature and a date. He grabbed a pen from the coffee table and let the tip hover over the signature line. What was he even signing? He didn't remember. Not a single word had stuck with him. He glanced back through the pages. Scratched his head.

Closed his eyes.

Took a breath.

Opened his eyes again.

_Focus_

He was getting a new teacher. He squinted at the paperwork. Solci wasn't going to be teaching him guitar after all.

_Huh why_

A Nicholas Inghiero was going to be his new teacher.

It didn't really matter but it was sort of confusing to have another contract to sign almost two weeks into practise. Wasn't it? He didn't know. Timmy signed and dated it before he went back and re-read the contract. It was a pretty basic teacher-student tutor contract, to be fair. It wasn't like he was signing his life away. Apparently, the guy had been a front runner in some Italian metal band like a decade ago, so that was cool. He probably had more in common with Timmy than Solci did. Solci was scholarly. Not that Timmy minded scholarly. He was appreciative of anyone smarter than he, but he knew he wouldn't mind more conversations about relatable things, teenage things, actor things, rather than Solci just snorting sardonically at Timmy's childish whims before diverting his attention back to the topic at hand.

_Nee-koh-lahs In-gyee-air-rrrrrroh_. Timmy mentally sounded out the name, pondering it for a second, before setting the contract on the table. He answered some texts from his mother, Pauline, and Will, before jumping into the shower. Lessons were over for the day but Luca had invited him over for dinner. That was nearly routine. Giulia’s gift orchid was pretty much dead, probably.

Timmy smiled to himself amidst the spray. He was getting to know all their names. He was given a bike. It was the prop bike that was going to be used in the film. But Luca just said he didn't care if Timmy took care of it or not. "Just treat it like you would treat your own bike," he said.

"I drop my bike on the ground a lot," Timmy said, like he was testing the waters. Luca didn't hesitate when he responded with, "Then drop this bike on the ground a lot."

Timmy and Luca had gazed at each other for a full three seconds before Timmy finally said, "okay then." He said this with a cheeky smile, of course.

Since then, Timmy had been all over Crema. He'd get lost and have to google map himself home. He found himself in parks and strange _piazze_ and restaurants. He wasn't a foodie, but he found a couple of places he really liked to go to for food and drink. Mostly drink. He often forgot to ate. Not an unusual habit, just an effect of his mind being elsewhere. Or he'd be somewhere where food wasn't easily attainable and he'd be hungry but then by the time he found a place to eat, he was already beyond that realm of hunger that his body had adjusted and he no longer felt it. Still, Sveregnini had told him to eat.

Timmy wanted to bike to a grocery store but most of the ones he knew of closed early so, with a resigned sigh, he made his way over to Luca's, where he learned their names again, and again, and he learned the rest of the history of Crema, a town he'd call his own soon enough, to be sure.

And then, he ate well.

****

Sex is good exercise. Here he was, a nobody from Hell, decent looking, he supposed, and horny as all fuck. Timmy had turned off _A Social Network_ for the umpteenth time, frustrated, lonely, and annoyed with everything and nothing at the same time (how was that even possible), when Marco, amidst loaning him his _Talking Heads_ shirt, had mentioned a nightclub in passing.

"Are you telling me I should go?" Timmy asked.

Marco smiled and shrugged. "You might find it interesting."

"That's such a vague word," Timmy said pointedly.

Marco only continued to smile. He ruffled Timmy's hair, nodded, and said, "Shirt looks good on you. Please don't wear it to the club."

Timmy took off the shirt, put back on his original one, thanked Marco, peddled home to finish up his studies, and got ready, hoping a good time out would put a stop to his hormonal anguish. He considered Facetiming Pauline. She was probably experiencing hormonal anguish, too. They could bitch about their hormonal anguish together. Pauline was good like that. But then she'd get tired of his complaining, as though she hadn't just been complaining herself, chide him about his manners and tell him to go get fucking laid already. All right, all right, sis, fine, since it's just _so_ easy. Then he'd be left alone in his hormonal anguish, pouty, sulky, and very much un-laid.

Two hours and eighteen minutes later, he was outside the club. _Magika_.

Timmy stared at its facade and wondered why the fuck it looked like a hybrid between a strip club and an Indian factory. Or a poorly placed casino. " _Grazie_ ," he said to the driver, who had accepted his pavement, waved him off and then drove away. Timmy knew he could have hitched a ride from one of the crew. Luca, himself, wouldn't have minded driving Timmy over but... Timmy couldn't explain it. But he didn't want to involve them in this, like they were two sides of him and he wanted to keep them separate. His heart was beating wildly - he was overcome with apprehension, insecurity, an underlying shadow of confidence, more insecurity, and that hum that came with the desire to be awake at night, to be amidst a crowd of people, to come alive with the bass.

When he finally moved up the line and the bouncer scrutinised his ID card, Timmy entered the club, a shiver racing through him as his eyes adjusted, his heart caught up with the beat and his skin flushed in anticipation of all the bodies that would be around him. He wished he wasn't alone and amidst his insecurities, some part of him pined for Will and Giullian and Kristina and Jake, or his friends from France or anyone really - at this point, he was _completely_ regretting coming alone.

It was difficult to get a good scope of the club for it was filled with so many people. There were chairs around the perimeter of the club - red velvety ones, with small circular tables scattered among them. On the opposite side of the club was a stage or dais of some kind and a DJ was rocking out behind his turntables, his hair stark white, spiky and streaked with red. Beside him, there were dancers in black booty shorts and fishnets, and halter tops splattered with the word 'Magika' written in pinkish red lettering. In the middle was the dance floor, glowing with various shades of the rainbow from the rectangular sleek modern chandeliers hanging overhead. There were sofas, too, on either side of the club and a bar off a little ways.

Timmy seriously considered grabbing a drink and lounging against the wall for a bit, watching, waiting, but then the bass dropped and he knew this song. Fuck it.

He shoved himself onto the dance floor and people parted for him. Leather shone. Jewelry flashed. Skin glistened. For a small town, Crema knew how to party when it wanted to and Timmy was surrounded by sexy and sexier and sexiest. Girls and boys in leather, and fishnets, and lace and sheer. He felt a body riding up against his and he moved with it, not sure if it belonged to a woman or a man and not particularly caring.

Time passed.

Someone slipped something small and round between his lips and in seconds, minutes, hours, days, decades, his mind was awakened. Each colour in the club was brightened - not in actual lumens but as though someone had taken photoshop to the colours and turned them into super HD, somehow made them super _present._

_Holy_ fuck, he thought wildly, mentally shouting with some sort of deranged glee in time with the music. Timmy's limbs felt loose, like they weren't really part of his body and he moved like liquid on the dance floor, embracing the person in front of him, occasionally arching against the body behind him. As the night drew on, the crowd only slightly thinned as the less exotic folks went home and the wild ones remained. As the night drew on, hands grew touchier, lips came closer and closer to the more scandalous parts of the human body, the music grew more sensuous. He was hot and cold at once. His head buzzed in a way that made his skin also buzz and when he was being touched, he almost feared for the lives of those touching him, as though he'd accidentally electrocute them. He almost made a move to stop them, like a warning, but once the fingertips grazed his skin, he was so turned on that the warnings got stuck in his throat.

Time wasn't even a concept.

_This shit is fuckin' lit_ , Timmy thought, or said, or shouted, he didn't know. He posed for pictures with a couple of girls (he wasn't actually sure if they were all girls, but again, what did he care). One of the girls grabbed him and somehow, they were above against a wall, away from the dance floor. Her lips were on his and Timmy relished in it. He loved the way her slender body fit against his, the warmth of her chest against his, the pressure of her palm between them, between his legs. And he found he was reciprocating the gesture, a hand under her skirt, touching, playing. Timmy had no idea that this moment, this atmosphere, this environment, was a precursor for something he'd experience later, a backwards sort of déjà vu.

" _Sei carino_ ," she said the moment they paused from kissing. The stream of consciousness was broken for the time being.

"What?"

Her face fell. "Don't you speak Italian?"

"No...a little..."

"You're American?"

Timmy was a little tired by this question, but maybe he was just tired of talking, tired of the inane because there was this wonderful storm inside him that was threatening to rip him into pieces if he didn't move, dance, or fuck. "Yeah."

"Oh okay, I can speak some English."

"That would be great, thanks."

She was pretty, to put it blandly. Okay, she was more than pretty: she was exactly what Timmy wanted right then. She had long, brown hair that glinted a little under the chandeliers above. It wasn't just brown but a rainbow of browns, all layered into one another, variations of golds threaded into darker shades of chestnut, oak, maple and nearly every other tree to exist. Her hair curled a little at the bottom. Her brows were long and sharp, but not super arched or anything ridiculous looking. Her eyes, though heavily lined, had the same sort of brown in her irises as her hair - that rainbow of shades. Lips were full, matted with garnet lipstick, and Timmy kept thinking how eager he was to have those around his cock.

" _Come ti chiami_?" she said in speedy Italian.

"What?"

"What's your name?" she repeated in English. "I need your name so I know what to scream when you fuck me."

"Wow, uh...Matt," he blurted out, not entirely sure why he didn't just give her his real name.

The girl backed up a little to survey him. "'Matt'?" she repeated, sounding a tad disappointed.

"Uh, yeah, Matthew. But, uh, most people call me...Xavier. That's my middle name."

"Your name is Matthew Xavier?"

Timmy grimaced. "Yes? Why? Is that weird?"

She shrugged. "I guess I wouldn't know. I'll call you Xavier. I'm Elisa."

"Nice," Timmy said and leaned in to kiss her. She was a little startled by his brusqueness but let him kiss her and then finally allowed herself to kiss back. He didn't second guess kissing her, that teeny little pill wouldn't let him. He'd kissed a few girls, mostly for film, but even so, he remembered being at LaGuardia and the girls in his grade spreading gossip about which boys were good kissers and which were bad kissers. Lola had even stated once that he was awkward with his mouth, like he wasn't quite sure how to control those muscles, and it had made him so uncertain that she never brought it up again. But he'd always wondered if she had just put up with his kissing because they were together and he couldn't handle criticism or if he actually improved. Now that he looked back at it, he wished she'd been honest with him for the rest of the short-lived relationship; it would've hurt but maybe it would've helped, too. Still. Timmy knew how girls' lips felt and he knew tender spots and good tips for small teases and so on and he used them all. They were both a little breathless when Elisa pulled back.

"We should leave..." she let her voice fade, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"I don't want to stop kissing you," he said, filled with colours.

"It's just for a moment." Elisa took his hand and led him through the crowd.

Somehow, they managed it outside. Was Elisa as high as he was? Timmy didn't think so. He wanted her to be though. He wanted her to feel the things he was feeling and it was like this philosophical lust, if that made any fucking sense, which it probably didn't, but whatever. He was cold. But Elisa didn't let him stop as they walked across the stark parking lot to an unbranded car; it was neither fashionable nor unfashionable and Timmy couldn't make heads or tails of it.

"It is custom," she said, pausing only slightly as if to consider her words, if she said them correctly, used them correctly. She unlocked the front door, turned the car on. Timmy got into the passenger's seat, did up the seat belt without thinking and then, with a raised eyebrow from Elisa, undid the seat belt. _Oh, right_.

Their lips met. Timmy angled himself so that his back was against the car door, one leg propped up on the seat. Elisa crawled right between his open legs and kissed him again. The car hummed around them, slowly warming up. Elisa lifted her shirt over her head, undid her bra. Timmy's hands went from her face to her neck to her chest. He cupped and squeezed her breasts, leaning down to lick at a nipple, drawing it between his lips, sucking hard. Elisa let out a soft sigh, her hands on his thighs, before she backed up a little, kissed Timmy's pink lips and leaning over. She dragged his black baggy sweats down his hips, pushed up his muscle tee.

Timmy drew in a breath, head back against the warming window. When he felt the welcome wetness of her mouth envelop the head of his cock, he was already praying to be undone.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

When he came, it was too soon. Or maybe too long. Timmy didn't know. He just recalled seeing his cum splashed across Elisa's breasts. He recalled himself kissing her breasts, licking their roundness, sucking vulgar hickeys into her skin when he could, tasting himself on his own tongue and not even caring.

Timmy wasn't sure what caused the night to end, if he did something wrong, if he ended up so out of it that Elisa hadn't felt comfortable going further, but he knew they'd exchanged numbers and good night kisses. He knew that his hands had been tangled in her hair when they'd kissed before departing. He knew he'd held her close to him, arms around her tightly, breathing in her musk, her perfume, and the other unnamable remnants from the night together. They didn't go further, but there were plenty of promises that they would.

When Timmy finally crashed into his bed, about a half hour before sunrise, he fell asleep to the taste of her lips upon his.

*

**2009**

"Sit," he said. He was greying and sharp nosed. Not very tall, but when not smiling, his stare was fierce and hawkish. Timothée found himself cowering under his gaze as he sat down. He couldn't meet the man's eyes. The classroom felt stifling and the anxiety surfacing in his veins was threatening to suffocate him alive.

"So, your name is... Timothy... Chalamet?"

Surprisingly, the man pronounced his surname correctly, but not so surprisingly, completely missed the pronunciation of his first name.  

"Timo-tay," Timmy said quietly.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. Nevermind." _what was he doing here, he'd failed, he should just go home_

"That's not what I meant. I meant for you to repeat yourself so I can pronounce it correctly."

Timmy looked up, jutted out his chin, crossed his arms over his chest. He still didn't meet the man's gaze. "It's Timo-tay. But whatever. No one gets it right anyway."

"Timo-tay," the man repeated, and his accent wasn't bad, and Timmy felt a little twinge of pleasure at being called by his name. "Is that what you go by?"

"You can call me Timmy," Timmy said sullenly.

"Is that what you prefer? Or is that what you ask people to call you because people are usually too lazy to discover how to pronounce it correctly?"

Timmy shrugged. "I don't know. Both, I guess. But it's really okay to call me Timmy. Everyone does. I don't mind it. My full name sounds... like some pretentious French author or philosopher or something. Something that doesn't feel like me anyway."

"So you're okay with me calling you Timmy?"

Timmy frowned. _who did this guy think he was? some sorta therapist?_  "Yeah."

Silence. Timmy felt scrutinised. He exhaled softly. "Yes," he reiterated finally, realising that the man was waiting for him to expand upon his answer. "Yes, it's okay." He sounded more confident than he felt.

"All right, good. Nice to meet you face-to-face, Timmy. I'm Harry Shifman. I teach drama here at LaGuardia."

Timmy mentally rolled his eyes. "I know who you are."

A small chuckle from Shifman. "I figured you did. I wanted to talk to you about your audition."

Timmy did roll his eyes this time and turn his face to the side. "What's to talk about? I failed, didn't I? I didn't pass. I saw my scores."

"Yes, you failed. Your test scores sucked, to be very frank."

Timmy raised his eyes to give Shifman a glare.

Shifman didn't flinch. "I said to be very frank for a reason, Timmy. You achieved a 2 in mathematics, history, and science. You received a 3 in English, which is passing but barely. But your audition...I gave you a 5."

Timmy just shook his head. "Doesn't matter. For an arts school, they sure as hell focus a lot on academics."

"We need our students to be well-rounded, too, you know."

"Whatever. This isn't exactly Stuyvesant."

Shifman laughed. "No, you're right about that. We depend entirely on public funding. But to receive that public funding, our students still have to be good students in core academics. Sorry to say that, but it's a fact of life."

Timmy closed his eyes. "So why are you talking to me? I suck at math. I can't focus in history. I don't really care about science. I did well in English because I'm naturally good at it."

"Because I want to know how you did it."

"Did what."

"I want to know how you threw in fifteen emotions into that one monologue. I want to know what you drew from. I want to know what inspired you to speak like that. I want to know that that audition wasn't a fluke."

Timmy paused. Was Shifman saying what he thought he was saying? He swallowed, throat suddenly very dry. Was Shifman actually impressed? That's what it sounded like, right? _No fucking way. I'm just a kid... he wouldn't... he couldn't..._

"It's not a fluke. I practised a lot. I wanted this."

"Did I hear you speak in the past tense?"

Timmy swallowed again and said, a little more confidently, "I want this. I've wanted this for a while now. I... I can't imagine my life doing anything else. I mean... I... I could do something else, I guess, and I'd do my best at it because... that's... that's life, right? That's what's expected of me? But I..." He stopped because if he continued to speak, he feared he would sound incredibly stupid.

Shifman shifted in his chair, the feet of the chair grinding uncomfortably against the tiled floor. "Go on. Just say it all."

"It's stupid."

"It's not stupid. Even if you feel it's stupid, it's not stupid. Not ever, Timmy. Not with me."

Timmy bit a lip, wrapped his fingers around his own throat for a moment, squeezing lightly as though by taking control of his own death, he could take control of his own life and maybe sound like he knew what he was doing. He rubbed his chin and jawline and then let his hand drop to his lap. He played with the rubber band around his wrist. "My family is made up of artists. Entertainers. Like my mother and grandmother and uncle and--"

"I don't care about them," Shifman interrupted, not gently, but not crassly either. "Why do you want this? Outside of anything they've done, I want to know why you believe this is for you. Forget about everyone else. Act like they never existed."

Timmy let out a small groan. This was impossible. Wasn't it true that sometimes people did things because those close to them inspired them to do those things? He couldn't actually ignore the influences from his family, could he? Could he really narrow it all down to a singular, personal ambition?

"I saw _The Dark Knight_ last summer," he started.

"Nolan," Shifman commented. It was neither here nor there.

"Yeah. I... saw it like six times in the theaters. Sometimes, I went by myself, like... by sneaking in. But I went and... I just... I saw this scene with Heath Ledger as the Joker and like... he was challenging Batman during that motorcycle scene and I remember just, like... I wanted to do that. Not just... that as in being a villain or hero but like... I wanted to get lost or something... in the mind of someone else, and create a scene like that. Like... it looked like so much fun and I know that acting isn't... all fun, it's work, but... I can't just be anything else. I can't see it."

"But you're young. How do you know?" Shifman said. Timmy didn't know it then but Shifman wasn't disagreeing or being discouraging. He was playing devil's advocate. He was trying to help Timmy understand himself, build up his own argument for himself, helping him fight for himself. Fighting for yourself is one of the most important things to learn and if Timmy was ever going to be part of the Fame school, that was going to be rule number one.

"I---I...I don't--"

"Breathe." That was rule number two.

Startled at the soft command, Timmy stopped, sat, and breathed. At that moment in time, as Timmy sat in that blue chair, in that classroom, as he was being considered by a man who would set him on the path to success and an Oscar nomination, another young man was working out, toning up, and learning about scull racing. This other young man was a good ten years older and was about to finish up shooting for a film about the social network that would give access to countries without roads and fuel angry energies from uprisings in the Arab world. As Timmy sat and breathed, this other man sat and breathed. And without knowing it, though they breathed for different reasons, they also breathed for the same reasons. Armie Hammer pushed forward in his practise shell. Breathed in. Breathed out. Breathed in. Breathed out. Timothée Chalamet sat in the classroom in front of the teacher who would change his entire life and breathed in. And breathed out. And breathed in. And breathed out.

"I don't know if I know. I just...know what I...feel. I saw that movie and it...like..." Timmy put his hands out, trying to shift them into the outline of a box. "It just made my future look so certain? Like this is the only choice for me? The only choice I'll be happy with? I...I don't want to not try. So... I tried." He started to tear up in frustration and he growled loudly in his own anguish and frustration. "I don't know who I am, right. I'm just a kid. And like some people find out who they are by going to Africa or India or China or whatever. Some people just _know_. I dunno how they know, they just do. I feel like taking on roles and stuff would help me find me, I guess. Maybe. I don't know. I just gotta do it. I gotta try... so, yeah, I tried."

Miles away, Armie Hammer was also trying.

"You definitely tried," Shifman agreed. He didn't lather on the compliments. He wasn't going to inflate the kid's ego before he did his part. He wasn't going to get the kid's hopes up. "Can you promise me something?"

Timmy shrugged. He realised he looked petulant and amended, "I think so. Yes."

"Can you promise me your audition wasn't a fluke?"

Timmy fought the urge to shrug again. He wiped the water from his eyes, annoyed and disgusted with himself. At that moment, Armie Hammer paused his rowing to wipe away a stream of sweat that had run into his own eyes. He took a breath. Timmy took a breath. "I can promise you that my audition wasn't a fluke. I loved doing it. I can do it again and again. I can do it now, if you want."

Shifman sat back in his chair, crossed a leg over the other, crossed his arms over his chest. "Do it then. Prove it to me."

So Timmy did.

Over three thousand miles away, Armie smiled.

*

**March 2016**

"Smile!" Kristina said, putting her fingers to her cheeks, and grinning cutely at him. Timmy rolled his eyes and pursed his lips into a reluctant, sardonic smirk.

Kristina shook her head, strands of hair falling into her face and she blew air at him, causing those strands to stir. The smile then faded and she leaned forward to play around with something off camera. When she straightened back up, music started playing. Timmy watched her, watched the way her eyes twinkled a little in her lamplight, the way her hair fell in silken sheets down to her bare shoulders. She began to sway a little with the music, moving her shoulders and head to the soft beat. Timmy swayed with her, 4,038 miles away, feeling the distance closing in, like New York City and Crema had moved with tectonic motion into place beside each other.

"Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?" she sang, slowly, silkily, her voice husky, deep, melodic, and somehow more dramatic and passionate than Hayley Williams's. "I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now. Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now..."

"That was liiiit," Timmy said, also moving to the beat. Kristina gave him that wicked smile of hers - he knew all of her smiles by heart. He knew when she was smiling in pain. He knew when she was smiling with the kind of internal laughter that threatened to break apart the stability of their universe, the laughter she kept inside because if she let it out, it would be too much. He knew when she was smiling out of deeply (this word was key) genuine affection, a kind of exasperated amusement that Timmy looked for in each of his friends as part of his subconscious criteria for companionship. He could feel what she was feeling and this thrilled him, filled him with a ballooning swell of love that longed to break out of his chest.

_Yeah, now let's pretend like I'm on the stage And when my beat drops everybody goes insane Okay, and everybody know my name And everywhere I go people want to hear me sang_

"Hey, homie!" Kristina said. Giullian, beautiful as always, sidled into view, his hair mussed from his nap.

"Yo, Timmy Tim! What--what are we doing right now?"

Kristina turned down the music a little. "We're singing. Well, _I'm_ singing. Timmy won't rap."

Giullian yawned, motioned for her to turn the music back up. Once he heard the song, he nodded and went, "I'll do Bobby Ray. Tim's Em, you know that." He blew an endearingly sarcastic kiss towards Timmy, who sent one back without a beat.

Giullian hummed as Kristina sang her chorus, soulful as always and Timmy wished they would just turn off the music all together and sing a capella. He wanted to hear them, only them. When B.o.B.'s voice came back on, Giullian did lower the music a little to allow his own voice to stand out. He wasn't the most skilled rapper ever but Giullian could keep a beat when he had one to go by. Kristina wrapped an arm around his shoulders as he sat down beside her. Timmy's heart thrummed at the sight of them. He wanted to go to them and touch them and be with them. He was reminded of all the unsent texts to Will, the _miss you'_ s and the videos his mother sent him of NYC and Pauline and random shots of her at work and-

"Yo, now let's pretend like I ain't got a name," Giullian began, eyes half closed. "Before they ever called me B.o.B. or A.K.A. Bobby Ray / I'm talkin' back before the mix tapes / Before they called me B.o.B. or A.K.A. Bobby Ray / I'm talkin' back before the mix tapes / Before the videos and the deals and the fame / Before they ever once compared me to André (3000) / Before I ever got on MySpace / Before they ever noticed my face / So let's just pretend and make wishes out of airplanes..."

"Can we pretend that are airplanes are liking shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now," Kristina said, then Giullian joined in for the remainder, "wish right now, wish right now. Can we pretend that airplanes are like shooting stars?" She gave a flourish, indicating it was the boys' turns to sing.

Timmy locked eyes with Giullian. And they both sang, softly, but with a daunting crescendo: "'And it seems like yesterday, it was just a dream / But those days are gone, they're just memories / And it seems like yesterday, it was just a dream / But those days are gone--" Giullian pointed at Timmy with both hands.

Timmy closed his eyes, surprised at how familiar the lyrics came to him.

"All right."

"Let's pretend/ Tim Chalamet never picked up a pen / Let's pretend / things woulda been no different / Pretend / he procrastinated, had no motivation / Pretend / he just made excuses that were so paper thin / They could blow away with the wind / 'Timmy-Tim, you're never gonna make it, makes no sense to play the game, there ain't no way that you'll win.'" At this, Giullian turned down the music even more. Timmy had stood up. "'/Pretend/ he just stayed outside all day and played with his friends / Pretend for a while Shifman wasn't his only friend / And it wasn't time to move and schools weren't changin' again / He wasn't socially awkward and just strange as a kid / That his father was at home and his mother wasn't busy as shit / And he never dreamed he could win awards and be lazy as shit."

Giullian and Kristina exchanged a glance. They loved watching their friend lose himself in the rhythm. And Timmy was lost. He was sort of half-pacing, half-nodding to the music, eyes closed, making hand motions to keep the beat. "Fuck a talent show in the gymnasium, bitch / "You won't amount to shit – quit daydreamin', kid! / You need to get your cranium checked / You're thinking like an alien, it just ain't realistic." / Now pretend / they ain't just make him angry with this shit / And there was no one he could even aim when he's pissed at / And his alarm went off to wake him, but he didn't make it to the C-M-B-Y-N set, slept through his plane and he missed it / He's gon' have a hard time explaining to Luca and Armie / Hell's Kitchen birthed another lazy ass kid / ‘Cause he never risked shit, he hoped and he wished it / But it didn't fall in his lap, so he ain't even here, he pretends that—"

"Can we pretend that airplanes are like shooting stars?" Kristina chimed back in, almost missing her entrance because she was so busy doing that smiling thing at Timmy. When Timmy looked at her, she was still smiling and he knew it was that smile that was telling him she was breaking inside from sheer contentedness (is that even a word, who fucking cares, it fits). "I could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now..." Giullian and Timmy joined in for the last lines. "Can we pretend that airplanes are like shooting stars? We could really use a wish right now, wish right now, wish right now..."

When it was over, they laughed at themselves and with each other. "That was fuckin' awesome, Timmy Tim," Giullian crowed.

Timmy rolled his eyes. But he was happy.

He could meld these worlds - the worlds of Crema and New York City, so opposite and there he was, a bridge between them, so maybe he could connect them, span that 4,000 mile distance and turn it into a single second of time. He couldn't wait to see Giullian. He couldn't wait to see Will.

He couldn't wait to see Kristina. He couldn't bring Crema to New York City.

So he'd bring New York City to Crema.

He'd come full circle.

-

 

                                                                                                                                                      

 

Timmy parked his bike outside the cafe, locking it to a bike rack, having biked from his piano lesson. He shifted his pack so it settled more comfortably on his back and then entered the cafe. It was called Caffè Marini and for the time of day, it seemed unusually empty except for two groups of students hunched over textbooks and a few older couples talking quietly amongst themselves. Timmy checked his phone: 4:33 PM. If he bought a coffee right then, he was sure it wouldn't keep him awake. One of the workers was a friend of Luca's and she smiled when she saw him come in.

" _Ciao_ ,  Timothée! You would like your usual?"

"Oh, no, no, _grazie,_ I'll just have an espresso for here."

When his drink was ready, Timmy took it, and found a seat, one of the small tables with a grey linen tablecloth. He sat down at his table, took out his notebooks for Italian, piano and guitar, and got to work. He went through guitar first since that was the easiest for him and ran through his finger stretches and using one arm as a fingerboard, he went chord by chord by chord. He flipped a page in his practise book and hammered the notes silently along his arm, counting under his breath like a metronome. When he felt sufficiently refreshed with guitar, he went to something harder - piano. He pulled out his stack of sheet music. He managed to read through a few scales when he sighed heavily and thrust everything aside. It hadn't taken long but he was out of steam. He wasn't going to be able to focus on studying music without having a piano or guitar in front of him.

"Fuck."  

He glanced around idly and spotted a trio of students studying by the window. He watched them attentively. Two girls and a guy. They looked young, maybe around his own age. Timmy stared at them a little resentfully before grabbing his music, stacking it up in a semi-neat pile and staring at it for a while before coming to a decision. Okay, it had proven futile to study music in a public place where he didn't have access to his instruments. But he could study his Italian, right?

Timmy first went through the alphabet, taking several seconds to say each sound a couple different times. Then he went through the basic numbers, mostly to get his tongue used to saying sounds in sequence. He counted forward, then backwards, then forward, then backwards again. After that, he reviewed the _-are_ , _-ire_ , and _-ere_ verbs and their basic conjugations. He probably wasn't going to need 95% of this information for the film but his Italian teacher wanted to be thorough while they had the time. Memorising the lines for the film phonetically wouldn't take long once Timmy proved he picked up languages easily. He found languages easier than music (which momentarily aggravated him because he loved music more than languages). Still, he focused on what his Italian teacher gave him. When it came to pronouncing words in Italian, he'd worked hard to try to remove his French accent but Luca said it was okay if the French slipped in occasionally because it would give a more realistic feel to the idea of a polyglot family. Luca had said that it was probably best to have Elio be different than in the book in the sense that movie!Elio would be American and would probably have learned Italian later (like Timmy had learned French).

_"Bicchieri... Bicchiere... Bic...Bicchi..._ " he muttered, highlighting words he struggled with. He looked back over at the students by the window. The girls had left without him noticing. It was just the guy now, hunched over in his own world. His hair had fallen into his face, shielding him mostly from view. Timmy sighed.

After forty-five minutes or so of wracking his brain, he set down his pen and sat back in his chair. Again, he turned to look at the guy by the window. He considered his options.

_okay fine_

He packed up all of his things except for his main Italian study book, his sheet filled with lines from the film, and his list of words he struggled with. Wondering if he'd be rejected, Timmy slid into the seat and gazed at the young man before him. " _Ciao_ ," he said in Italian as the man looked up in surprise, " _Scusami per il disturbo. Potresti... aiutarmi con l'Italiano_?" In English: "If you have time?"  He knew he was being bold but he figured it didn't matter. By the middle of June, he'd be outta there, and never heard from again (probably) so why not take advantage where he could? He was also fully aware that he was probably interrupting the guy's study flow, possibly interrupting his entire schedule for the afternoon, and possibly about to be turned away. Timmy had learnt one thing when he was a kid: life is all about possibilities. He was learning something else even now: what that actually fucking meant.

The young man now considered him, a little confused. He was pretty in his own way and young, maybe around Timmy's age, if not younger. He had a sharp face, and a soft, but intense stare. " _So parlare un po' inglese_ ," he said. " _Ho un po' di tempo_."

"I'm sorry," Timmy said. The young man smiled a little crookedly and shrugged.

" _Va bene, ti posso aiutare_."

" _Grazie._ So, uh.  _Come ti chiami?_ " Timmy asked, nursing his drink.

"Matteo..." He frowned at himself for a reason Timmy couldn't fathom. " _Sei Americano_?"

"Yeah." He didn't find the question annoying this time. " _Mi chiamo_ Tim. Timmy."

"If you want, we can speak English." Matteo seemed almost insistent, but shyly so, and his voice was soft, which made Timmy light-headed.

" _Devo esercitare il mio italiano_ ," Timmy said easily, happy at how naturally that sentence came to him. Not that it was particularly difficult but he was starting to actually think in the language a little, which was helping loads.

"I need to practise my English," Matteo countered swiftly and his small smile was definitely coquettish though Timmy hardly noticed. He liked that smile though and the way the fast fading sun's rays invaded into the cafe and glinted off the glasses on the shelves behind counter and thus cast beautiful shadows on one side of Matteo's face left Timmy a little stunned. This was the real beginning of a moment, in that ocean of moments, and he'd recall this encounter later, with heavy nostalgia and longing.

"Okay," said Timmy slowly. " _Io so parlare italiano. Tu sai parlare inglese. Possiamo correg...correggerci_..." he hesitated, realising he didn't know the words for 'each other.'

" _Possiamo correggerci l'un l'altro_ ," Matteo said in Italian, sounding it out. Then in English, "it would help me to listen in English, too, but I can compromise." As beautiful as Italian could be, Matteo's English was also beautiful and lilting to the ear, pleasing like slow, gentle waves lapping at the shoreline. Timmy wondered if the guy could sing. And Matteo's slowness, and careful wording were all indicative of a perspicuity that Timmy wasn't even sure he saw in his own Italian teacher, a teacher who was often impatient and trifling, often reminding Timmy of a master musician teaching a class to lowlife grade school amateurs. Matteo was relatable. He could have been someone Timmy had known from LaG, though he lacked the obnoxious outward confidence that was prevalent in LaG kids. Timmy kind of regretted not having such time with Elisa and wondered if she had the same sort of air of authenticity his newfound acquaintance did.

"You got it," Timmy said automatically in English after a moment, laughed at himself, and said in Italian, " _va bene, d'accordo._ "

"Cool," Matteo said, watching him carefully.

Timmy slurped down the rest of his drink, smiled apologetically. " _So, quanti anni hai_?"

"Just turned 18, you?"

" _Ho appena fatto 20 anni. Be'...quasi.._."

"When do you turn 21?"

" _Dicembre_."

"Oh, happy belated birthday then."

" _Grazie_."

"You're welcome. I am actually in school in America, for a semester. I am just here for break."

" _Ecco perché parla...parli così bene inglese_."

Matteo scowled. "A lot of Italians speak okay English, you know."

" _...Il mio...I mi... colleghi? Colleghi non parlano inglese... spesso.._." Timmy winced at his language failings, switched languages again. Matteo grinned. "Okay, that's not entirely true. A lot of people speak English; they just prefer not to."

Matteo shrugged off that comment. "Well, it's not like all Americans speak very good English."

Timmy felt strangely offended at the comment, but also reluctantly agreed. "Yeah, you're right." There was a silence. Timmy was trying to figure out how to continue the conversation. He didn't want it to end but there were limits to how much he could say in Italian so he kept to English. "Where in America are you going to school?"

Matteo raised an eyebrow. "California."

"Oh, nice. I'm from New York."

Matteo's facial expression changed and he looked at Timmy almost as though Timmy were a whole new person. "New York? New York _City_?"

Timmy nodded. He kept to English now in his anxiety and excitement. "Born and raised. I've lived there my whole life. I love it."

"Why are you _here_?"

Timmy hesitated, then held up his Italian books and papers. "Studying." He didn't know why he didn't just outright tell Matteo that he was there for a film, to film this wonderful bisexual summer romance, to invite him over to the set, to show him the villa, to introduce him to the cast and the crew.

"What are you studying?"

"I study theatre, you?"

"Economics."

Timmy made a face. "That sounds boring."

Matteo grinned. "It's very boring." He gave Timmy a sly glance. "But this conversation is interesting."

"Yeah, it is."

After that, Timmy and Matteo huddled over the table next to each other, discussing their studies and more. They went on enthusiastic rants about their favourite films. Timmy gave a speech on _The Dark Knight_ . Matteo stumbled over his own soapbox when talking about _The Truman Show_. ("Jim Carrey, I like Jim Carrey. Glad you didn't choose Ace Ventura though.") They swapped favourite colours. Timmy was diplomatic and said sometimes it was orange, like a sunset, and other times deep blue. Matteo liked red and sky blues.

"Why sky blue?" Timmy asked curiously, though not surprised. The colour suited Matteo and Timmy thought that he would have guessed correctly if he'd been asked.

Matteo shrugged. "It reminds me of freedom. The sky."

"Sky blue reminds you of the sky," Timmy remarked. "Never would've guessed."

"Shut up."

Timmy laughed. "When I lived with my mother, we lived in this high rise in New York called the Manhattan Plaza. We were, like, on the thirty-third floor. And when you walked down the hallway to the end, there was a big window and you could see a lot of the sky. Well, except the parts blocked by other high rises and...yeah but... I mean, what you could see was nice."

"That is nice."

Timmy couldn't tell if Matteo was teasing him back or not but he responded accordingly, "Maybe.” Pause. "Maybe not. Maybe you'd have to go to the top of the Empire State building to see something really nice." _what am i saying fucking god i'm such a fucking idiot what the fuck_

"Would you show me?"

_what?_

Timmy was momentarily thrown off but he managed to stuttered out a "y-yeah, that'd be sweet."

Timmy would have gladly shown Matteo all of NYC. It was almost impossible to prevent his mind from wandering briefly into that little fantasy...walking down 5th Ave, seeing plays on Broadway, showing him LaGuardia and some of his favourite bars and hangout spots, the best place to get bagels, the best place to get pizza (that one 99c pizza place between 3rd and 6th), that one restaurant down the street that was clearly a front for the mob, but served the best fucking fettuccine ever, the latkes that his neighbour made...

They continued to swap likes, and dislikes, and childhood stories. Matteo had grown up in Modena, a small town two hours away from Crema. Timmy talked about living in Hell's Kitchen before moving to the Bronx with his friends.  

Time, an ever moving indiscriminate villain of epic proportions, passed much too quickly, and Timmy was brought back to Earth when he glanced at his phone and realised he really needed to head home. _Do I really though? I could just stay out... I've done that before... Yeah, but then you were exhausted the next morning and arrived late to your gym session... but what if I won't be late this time... I could nap in the afternoon... Who do you care more about disappointing, this Italian stranger or the Italian director who currently is in charge of your career?_

Timmy waged that war with silent aggression. "I gotta head home," he said apologetically. He knew that if he didn't leave at that moment, he'd stay until the restaurant closed. He got up and packed his bags.

"Thanks for the help and the... good conversation... Maybe I'll see you around sometime? Next time I see you, your drink’s on me, yeah?”

Matteo also stood up, his face drawn tight. "You're leaving so quickly."

" _Sì, devo andare a...casa e studiare_ ," Timmy said. It wasn't a lie. He hadn't gotten any more studying done with Matteo and he really needed to get something in before...

"Do you live here now? Did you move here?"

" _No, sono un...qual è la parole...parola,_ sorry, _per '_ actor' _? Sono in un...film_." There, he said it. 

Matteo raised his eyebrows. "That explains it."

Timmy was so caught off guard, he sputtered in English: "Explains what?"

"Nothing, nothing. But if you are leaving... Are you coming back?"

Timmy shrugged. " _Non lo so. Forse? Ti vedrò ancora, probabi...probabili_ \--" Matteo laughed a little as Timmy struggled with the word. "Shut up," he said, also laughing at himself. "Fuck. Fuck. Just probably. I'll probably see you again." Matteo packed up his own bags.

"I can walk with you a little."

“I literally live like...next door, man. You know the building with the orange paint? That’s where I’m at.”

“Oh.”

“But,” Timmy added quickly, “I wouldn’t mind the company…”  
  
Matteo shrugged and stood quietly, stacking his books and papers on top of each other. 

Timmy was privately grateful for that silent acquiescence and as they left the restaurant together, a feeling bubbled inside him that he couldn't explain. They walked through the _piazza_ in the direction of _Via XX Septembre_.  After locking his bike in the rack in front of his apartment (taking as much time as he could to delay Matteo’s departure), Timmy stopped, glanced around with a frown on his face and turning to Matteo, he said, "Wait, come with me."

"What, why? Where?"

"There." Timmy pointed to an alley beside a small corner newsstand called _La Provincia_. "Come on." He half-jogged towards the alley, not checking to see if Matteo was following, but when he stopped, and leaned up against a wooden door of the building after nearly tripping over the damn doorstep, he saw that Matteo had followed, apprehension and curiosity plastered across his face. The door was cool and solid behind him; it had some graffiti on it but nothing Timmy could make out. "I didn't want to be out there," he said by the way of explanation, gesturing out towards the courtyard of the _piazza_. "Felt kind of exposed."

"Okay..."

Timmy's heart was racing. Why was this so difficult? He hadn’t misread the tension, right? He held out his hands. Matteo took them wordlessly and Timmy gently drew Matteo to him. Their faces were so close, they could feel each other's breaths on their cheeks. Timmy felt a chill race through him that had nothing to do with the crisp air. He was almost inclined to beg but they moved at the same time. The first kiss was barely a kiss, precisely feather-light, almost accidental. The second kiss was heavier and Timmy slipped a tongue into Matteo's mouth; he hoped it was okay, he hoped _this_ was okay. Matteo responded, though hesitantly, and Timmy coyly, encouragingly, nudged a knee between Matteo's legs and he swallowed Matteo's soft gasp.

_Please, please, please_

Timmy's hands found hip bones and he rubbed a thumb over them, his fingers touching the bare skin of Matteo's stomach. He wanted to explore further, wanted to reach his hand down, curl his hand between those legs...and for a moment, he entertained the idea of bringing Matteo back to his apartment. Would Matteo get on his knees for him? Timmy didn't know, didn't really know what to think, really, but maybe he entertained the idea of returning the favour. Actually, he added pensively, he'd get on his knees first. _Could he--would he--should he-_

With a rueful groan, knowing he was just delaying the inevitable and making things worse for himself, Timmy used his hands to keep Matteo's body pressed against his, abdomen to abdomen, stomach to stomach. He kissed harder, not even caring about the quality of the kiss, but just enjoying it for what it was, what it could mean in the future. _i wish i could paint; i'd paint something in every shade of blue for you._ Was Timmy imagining that he could feel Matteo's heart beating between all those frustrating layers of clothes?

_let this be okay_

He ran a hand underneath Matteo's sweatshirt and tee, letting his fingers trace the dip of Matteo's spine, relishing the smoothness and feverish warmth of his skin. He felt a shiver between them and couldn't tell to whom it belonged. Timmy nibbled on Matteo's lower lip and kissed the corner of his mouth and down to his jawline before burying his face in Matteo's neck, taking in his incredibly boyish scent, appreciating it, wishing he could get more of it, more of everything.

"I don't make out with strangers a lot," Matteo remarked a little dryly, if not also a little breathlessly. Timmy gave a small nervous laugh into his neck, giddiness and horniness threatening to undo him.

"Sorry." He lifted his head. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"It's okay. It was nice. I...uh... _Vorrei poterti dire tutto quello che ti voglio dire. L'amore è una belva delicata_.”

“What was that?”

Matteo just smiled at him.

Timmy couldn't help but kiss him again, this time in gratitude, like a _thank you for not being freaked out by me, thank you for allowing me to do this, thank you for not judging._ Timmy didn't know it in that moment, but what he was really feeling was safety. He could show affection without fear of being photographed. He could be whomever he wanted to be, even himself, because no one there really knew him. And there he was, making out with a random guy in some corner alley. The night was cool. He wondered if Matteo could tell how hard he was, being pressed up against him like that and Timmy realised that it didn't matter. Matteo didn't seem put off by any of it for he, himself, was a little flushed and his eyes were cautious but also bright with exhilaration.

Timmy touched the side of his face and then leaned his head back against the wall, taking a breath. "Shit," he said, mostly to break the silence.

"What?"

"Nothing, I..." His mouth twitched, a sad smile threatening to emerge. Laughter could be heard from not far away. "I could do this for a while..." _probably forever_  "But I shouldn't. I can't."

Matteo sighed and started to withdraw, but Timmy caught his hand to stop him. "I'm sorry," he said and he meant it. Matteo shrugged.

"It's okay. I get it."

How could Timmy explain? Like he'd been anyone but Timothée Hal Chalamet, then he would have stayed, would have continued this, followed it to what he'd hoped would have been a wonderful end... or maybe it wouldn't have ended at all. He almost laughed out loud at himself. He was being a fucking idiot. If he was anyone other than Timothée Hal Chalamet, he probably wouldn't be standing in some doorway in Crema, Italy, making out with an adorable Italian guy to begin with. It was like that song he sang with Giullian and Kristina, Eminem talking about who he'd be,  _where_  he'd be if he hadn't made the choices that led up to him being a famous rapper. Timmy wouldn't be here if the stones hadn't fallen into place the way they had. That had to count for something, right?

With a sad sigh, Timmy kissed Matteo again softly on the lips. He kissed his neck, too, letting his lips linger for just a second or two too long and it took 150% of his willpower to finally pull away.

"I'm sorry. I enjoyed this. I'm sorry."

The good-byes were quick, filled with avoided gazes, flushed cheeks, and racing hearts. Looking back not once, but twice, Timmy left the alley at a jog. It had been a stupid, risky move. But try as he might, Timmy couldn't find himself regretting it. He wanted to do it all again.

Someday, he would.

After all, didn't a wise man once say it ain't over till it's over?

*****

**2009**

"Harry," Kim Bruno said, smiling.

"I'm here to talk about the Chalamet boy," Shifman said, as he sat down gracefully in the seat in front of Kim's desk. She looked momentarily confused.

"I'm not sure I--"

"You need to pass him."

Kim looked taken aback. "I--"

"The kid's a genius, Kim. I've never scored anyone higher in an audition. We need him to go to this school. We go way back and I bet you can count on one hand the number of favours I've asked of you."

Kim paused, considered Shifman's words. When she spoke, an old hint of her Brooklyn drawl surfaced. "Smooth as always. Fine. Please allow me a moment to grab his file and look it over."

Shifman got comfortable. He smiled widely, steepled his fingers in his lap. "Sure thing." Kim looked him over as she stood up and walked over to her file cabinet.

"Harry, this could take a while."

"I'll wait."

"Obstinate as always, too."

"'I can't seem to escape the sins of my smart-alec youth--'"

"I'm not from the Bronx, Harry."

"You don't have to be."

Kim sighed. Her hair was exceptionally curly that day and in spite of her cosmetics, there were shadows under her eyes.

"Did you accept the position?"

She started. "What?"

"For L.A. The teaching position they offered you."

Kim cursed under her breath. "That was supposed to be a secret."

"Walls have ears," Harry said mysteriously. "I won't tell anyone though. Cross my heart." He smiled again, this time a little sadly. Kim flipped through the files in the cabinet, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath.

"I said no," she responded. "I'm not ready to leave LaGuardia, Harry, you know that. I've been in New York City for twenty-five years. As much as I bitch and complain about needing a change of pace, I can't seem to get out of here."

"They're going to keep asking you. Every year. Until you accept. You know that, right?"

Kim drew out a file. "Yes, Harry, I'm aware. And maybe I'll go. But..."

"They want Lisa Mars to replace you," Harry said quietly. Kim turned a sharp stare on him as she settled back behind her desk.

"Is that common knowledge?"

"Walls have ears."

Kim made a disgusted noise in her throat. "That wasn't on record."

"My mouth's zipped shut," Harry said, making the motion. "Personally, I think it's a terrible decision. Mars is so clinical. She'll suck the life outta LaGuardia." Harry remembered something Timmy said. "She'll try to turn us into Stuyvesant."

"We can't ever be Stuyvesant. That is a stupid, petty, and pointless goal. It's absolutely preposterous."

Harry grinned. "We all know it. I really don't understand the obsession with Stuyvesant. So they breed politicians. We breed artists. Apples and oranges."

"Mmmm..." Kim responded diplomatically, opening up the manila folder before her and flipping through. "I knew that surname was familiar. His sister--Pauline--is a student; you teach her, don’t you? I know their mother, Nicole. They live over at Manhattan Plaza."

"Subsidised housing for artists," Harry said blandly, unperturbed. "The kid's talented, Kim. I don't say that lightly. I don't praise easily, you know that. I gave him two monologues to read and he read through them as though he'd been practising them for years. He had entire lines memorised in one go. He's not perfect, but he's damn near close. I want to train him. He's not the raw, gimmicky, one-trick pony type of talent either. He knows a little about the business already. He did some commercials and a couple of decent short films. He's no child star, but that will work in his favour. He doesn't have the ego a lot of child stars develop. He also doesn't have the broken background that may lead him into a life of drugs and crime. The kid's privileged but not overly so. He's not spoiled and he's definitely not ungrateful."

Kim watched Harry talk. "You don't typically go into their backgrounds until you're analysing their call-back auditions."

Harry shrugged. "I had Timmy act out the audition again in my classroom. He barely needed the script. He stumbled a bit, but it was the same level of quality. He altered a couple things and it didn't matter: it was just as good as it was the first time, if not even better."

"You sure he's not being pressured by his parents--"

Harry shook his head. "I'm sure. I asked. He said he saw a Nolan film that came out last summer, _The Dark Knight_ . No, don't laugh, Kim, please. He talked about it with such an introspective maturity that it threw even _me_ off. He equated his desire to act with a search for identity. He's 13, Kim, and he's already years above his peers. Hell, he's years above many adults. I think LaGuardia can cultivate that. He'll have the nation's admiration in ten years, at the least."

"Maybe if he'd said Scorsese..." Kim began but Harry knew she was won over and was reluctant to admit it.

"We need him," Harry pressed. "We need him now. He couldn't have come at a better time. I don't know how much longer you'll be with us and I know, right now, and I don't give a flying fuck if this off record or not, but Lisa Mars wouldn't show mercy, no matter how talented someone was. Grades and tardiness come first to her. Everyone at the Board knows it. But if we don't accept this kid, sure, he'll go onto something else and do fine with it, probably. He's got the ambition. He's got serious ambition. But we will have lost a valuable chance."

"A chance for what?"

Harry threw his arms up in the air. "I don't know!" he exclaimed, grinning wildly. "A chance to witness something great, perhaps? Or maybe not. But we won't know until we give him a chance to prove himself, right? If he doesn't prove himself, he'll leave."

"His grades are worrisome..."

"I know. I get that. His parents took him to a psychiatrist last year and he was diagnosed with ADHD. He's going to France this summer and he's going to be a soccer coach. His mother believes it'll help keep him occupied, out of trouble, and focused. Maybe expend a lot of that extra energy."

"That's only a temporary solution. A summer solution. If I allow him into the school and his grades don't meet standard..."

"They'll meet standard," Harry said confidently. "He can expend his extra energy in the drama department. And if his grades don't meet standard, he won't get to act. It would devastate him. He'll work for it." He saw the doubt begin to ease on Kim's face but he still had to make sure. "I know his behaviour and his tardiness and his grades are all things to consider. And you know I'm not going to break him down in order to build him up again. This isn't the military. I don't turn my students into mindless drones. Freshman year will be a test since I won't be his teacher until his sophomore year. Then I'll build him up. If he acts out, he won't get to act. But I'm not going to turn him into a drone, Kim. I want my students to know they can question me, they can challenge me. When they've outdone me, then I know my job is done."

"No one's bested you yet, Harry," she responded with a wry smile.

"Perhaps not. But Timmy will. I guarantee it. He will surpass us all if you give him a chance."

Kim was silent for a while as she idly glanced over Timmy's file again. "You make him come to call-backs, Harry, okay?"

Harry grinned and stood up. He knew that was an acquiescence. "Oh, I will."

The call-backs would be for show, they both knew it. It was a game they were playing but rules had to be followed.

"Good. Now leave me alone. I have a mountain of work ahead of me. I don't even know why I gave you so much time to stand upon your soap box."

"Because you knew I'd be right."

"I didn't even know what you were going to talk to me about."

"Same thing."

"Good-bye, Harry."

Harry left, this time with a little spring in his step.

Timothée Chalamet would have to come back for call-backs, yes.

But Timothée Chalamet was already in.

 

                                          


	5. growing up is annoying, like everything else

Will's unanswered text lay flat on the counter, resting just underneath the screen of Timmy's phone, perfectly parallel to the ceiling. Timmy was slumped over the smooth, cold surface, his chin resting on his crossed arms. He stared at his phone, eyes travelling along its flat lines, subconsciously lining up lines with the lines of the bottom of the cabinets, lining those up with the top of the cabinets, lining _those_ up with the ceiling.

_you really are an asshole sometimes, Tim_

It was true.

Timmy felt like an asshole though he didn't particularly know why. He was frustrated. Will wouldn't elaborate.

Well.

Maybe he would, actually, but Timmy hadn't asked him to. He felt like that was giving in, though giving into _what --_ that was one of the missing variables. Timmy replayed the scene over and over in his head. It had been a few days, a week, but he still remembered FaceTiming Will. It was after Will had gotten out of the shower, and he was just sitting, relaxed, in his massive armchair, hair mussed, shirtless, and Timmy had mentioned Elisa. Things were goin' well, right? He described his high and their short-lived but amazing make out session (he remembered it as amazing, though a small part of his brain wondered if Elisa remembered it similarly). Will had seemed interested in the topic, laughing in all the right places, asking all the right questions, sharing tidbits from his own experiences. But then Timmy mentioned Matteo and things changed.

Just like Timmy knew about Kristina's smiles, just like how Timmy knew about Giullian's moods, Timmy knew when Will wasn't as relaxed as he was pretending to be. His calm, lazy reticence was only there on the surface, but had suddenly become tense, bordering upon reproach. This change was only noticeable if you knew Will. And Timmy knew him inside and out. Will could be a rubik's cube at times but Timmy knew the key to solving this particular rubik's cube. 

Will always enjoyed pointing out how easy Timmy was to read (even when he wasn't), so Timmy often felt victorious when he could read Will in return.

But Victory hadn't graced him with Her presence that time.

Instead, he'd felt like the world had gone sideways.

But Timmy hadn't known why at the time. He just knew something was off.

"Just be careful," Will had said. 

"I know, man. But no one really knows me here. I'm a nobody." 

"You don't know if that's actually true. You don't know what's gonna happen." Will had said this all very as-a-matter-of-factly, like they had just discussed the weather. Timmy knew Will's superficial nonchalance was just a side effect of being high but the parental words were redundant and, to be frank, a little annoying. 

"You don't know what's gonna happen either," Timmy had responded, arduous and pointed. 

Will shrugged, the vehemence that had rested just below his surface receding more and more as the seconds passed. One of the great things about Will - he knew how to get fired up, but he was really, _really_ good at calming down, burying the emotions deep, channeling them into the relationship between his own fingers and the joint between them. "I'm not the one making out with strange Italian teenagers." The coolness had returned. "How old did you say he was? Seventeen?"

"Eighteen." Yeah, Timmy had been a little defensive.

Will scoffed but said nothing. He slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke, momentarily obscuring him from view of the camera. 

"At least this was my decision," Timmy had said carelessly, leaning back in his chair.

"At least it was," Will had agreed. "It wasn't some party trick to get the girls going." 

Timmy winced at the age old call-out.

Now, Timmy felt himself wince as he replayed the scene in his head again. His phone vibrated and lit up but he just watched it. Elisa had happened a week or so into his Cremasch experience. Matteo had happened more recently. Where Elisa's touch was a vintage photograph, Matteo's skin was still a ghostly warmth beneath Timmy's fingers, his tongue a taste in Timmy's mouth. Since then, Timmy had wandered the _piazza_ every day, checked in at Caffè Marini every afternoon, but Matteo was gone. Maybe he'd gone back to the States. Why hadn't Timmy bothered to get some contact information?

 _you know why_ , said that voice in the back of his head, reminding him of his own ascetic civil war.

 _Whatever_.

So Timmy sat at the counter, hurt by Will's text and not knowing how to digest it. An officially dead orchid glared at him from its flower pot. A part of him wanted to disrupt the geometry of his phone and its lines aligning with the lines of the cabinets and ceiling, just...reach his hand out and knock it to the floor. But the sensible part of him won over - he couldn't afford a new phone, that was for sure, even with his payout from the movie, which he expected to be modest. To be honest, he wasn't even sure what he had been looking for in trying to find Matteo again. Was he looking for the friendship? Sex? A relationship? Did it matter (was this the question of his life because he sure as hell asked it a lot)?

Timmy sighed and picked up his phone. He ignored Will's message, sent a few things to Giullian, Jake, Lothaire, and his Uncle Rodman, promised Pauline they'd FaceTime after he met Armie Hammer. Pauline wanted Timmy's impression and when he'd inquired as to why, she said he was hot. Timmy had frowned and responded with "I thought you went more for the Jon Snow types" and Pauline had quickly texted back with a "Hammer is everyone's type." Timmy laughed at that. _not true_ , he'd said, _brooke doesn't find him particularly interesting_ . Pauline had a response to that, too: _he's not, at first glance. but he's like a fungus, he just grows on you whether you like it or not_.

 _oh god_ _you just equated my costar to fungi i'm gonna go die for a sec_ and Pauline had sent a wild array of emojis, all laughter, mocking him for his weak will.

_such a maverick_

_always and forever dude_

Timmy went to bed later, feeling incongruous and insincere and not really knowing why or how those feelings came to be, especially in a place that had so openly welcomed him with warmth and a familiarity he'd never had in such a foreign place.

 _what you want ain't always easy, tih-moh-thee_ _, but y'still gotta go for it anyway and make those necessary sacrifices along the way_

He fell asleep eventually to intractable thoughts, hearing Matthew McConaughey's voice in his head, remembering Matteo's lips against his and the warm indentation of his spine, and the bitter audacity of his best friend Will. 

 

****

 

**2015**

Grateful to finally be out of the wind, Timmy stepped inside and embraced the warmth of the house that greeted him. As a New Yorker, well, specifically, as a New Yorker from New York _City_ , he'd never shown much interest in the cities elsewhere within state lines. Buffalo seemed like a shithole. Niagara Falls was even worse. Syracuse was about on par with Buffalo. Albany felt like a misplaced Southern town and Rochester's redeeming qualities were only in its quality of attractive music students. Okay, he was being a bit harsh, he silently admitted that. But growing up around kids wearing t-shirts that read "if you weren't raised in New York City, this city isn't yours to claim" and photoshopped images of Darth Vader with the stylised words of "The Empire Strikes Back" (usually worn during football season), and being constantly reminded of his stake in the city itself, it was hard not to feel a little bit elitist when it came to the other parts of NY.

Claverack was one of the last places Timmy figured he'd ever end up. It was never ever a consideration. Life takes you to strange places, even some that seem so foreign despite being a few hours ride away from your own home. Timmy knew nothing about Claverack except that it was located in the Hudson Valley part of the state. When he'd gotten out of the car, he stretched his legs, walked up the pathway and stared for a moment at the massive nineteen-bedroom Federalist style manor before him. From the front, it didn't look like much - it looked pretty political, actually, and conservative, with its green and white striped awnings, empty flower pots, and incredibly perfectly trimmed grass. All though Timmy didn't know it yet, he was on the path to being around those who had severe and intense passions for not just architecture itself but the living, thriving passion of _commitment_ \- committing oneself to one's partners, to projects, to restoration, to revitalisation. Ivory was not the first nor the last to venture into Timmy's life, but he was the first Timmy truly recognised. He related to Ivory in the sense that they both had French backgrounds - Ivory's was American...Louisiana-French, actually - and something common about the French, and possibly most Europeans, was the carefulness in inviting others into one's circle. Ivory didn't trust easily. His company, his admiration, his friendship, were all incredibly hard won. But once you were in, it was hard to leave.

Every aspect of this infiltrated Ivory's life and Timmy was enveloped with that life the moment he walked in through the front door. The house had been purchased back in 1975 and Ivory was in a constant state of fixing it up, restoring it, subtracting something only to add something greater to its existence. Even if Timmy couldn't pinpoint this exact idea, he could _feel_ it as his eyes wandered over the rough hardwood floors and the geometry of the staircase with its fierce balustrade and over a pendant lamp on an antiqued table by the wall. Rusticity reminiscent of Nantucket mingled with a colonial starkness that somehow _worked,_ even when contrasted with all the Indian influences from Ivory's former partner, Ismail Merchant (Ismail Rahman). Everything about the house spoke of a cultured life well lived. Artifacts from London, Mumbai, New York City, Mombasa, Paris modestly decorated tabletops and ledges and walls. 

As Ivory and Timmy went up the stairs, Ivory spoke of Ismail, his love for people, his passion for intimacy even amongst strangers, and he and Timmy shared a private joke about how the French rarely married anyone too different from themselves, but here he was: devoted, forever and forever to Ismail and now Ismail's ghost, a man who couldn't be more different. He spoke of how marriage had never been an issue because, for them, they were already married to each other beyond any written pact or covenant. Ivory mentioned how Ismail had railed against the partitioning of India when he was young and quoted an impassioned speech written by Ismail himself.

"How could I not fall in love with someone who had so much love to give?" Ivory said. Commitment. All the best things in life were commitments. Commitment out of love, instead of necessity. 

They made their way into the parlour. Timmy's eyes were immediately drawn to a shape lounging confidently on the curved white, slipcovered sofa - a young man, with curly black hair, high cheekbones, sultry, pouty lips and air to him that said he had little to care about.

Ivory introduced them. Julien Landais. From Angers. Timmy hesitantly shook his hand before sitting down on a chair beside the sofa, even though there was plenty of room on the sofa itself (most of the Native American pillows had been moved aside or placed on the opposite sofa). Julian's eyes - sky blue - made his appearance seem otherworldly and though he was a little dishevelled, he still looked as though he'd just completed a photoshoot. He was, of course, a model, and an actor.

Wordlessly, Julien handed Timmy a massive packet. It was the script for _Call Me by Your Name_ , a screenplay in the works, based on the novel of the same name written by André Aciman. When Timmy had first met Ivory, the screenplay hadn't been written yet so he and Ivory just discussed key scenes using copies of the book (a book he'd taken from a library at the time, but had since bought his own copy - where the library copy went, he wasn't entirely sure). 

Timmy averted his gaze, not wanting to make Julien uncomfortable, and distracted himself by glancing around the room. There was so much to take in and so little he, Timmy, understood. He didn't know much about Matisse or Vibert. He knew only the basics about Da Vinci. Knew maybe a little more or less about Picasso. He knew nothing about India except the tiniest facts he remembered from history and something about the Gandhis. He could pinpoint the Indian influences only because they didn't match the aesthetics he'd grown up seeing in his own home - stuff like the nineteenth-century Picchwai wall-hanging bought in Rajasthan; it showed Krishna among a sea of pink lotuses. In another part of the house, there was a coverlet, eighteenth-century, from Palampur. And in yet another part of the home was a Raj-era chair. But Timmy couldn't have told you what any of that meant. He just knew them by sight and yet though these things, so distinctly _eastern_ stood out, they complemented the Western styled trompe l'oeiled geometric inlay of the floor. They complemented Ivory's typewriter, a Brother electric GX-6750, on which Ivory did all his screenplay writing. Timmy knew the house had been designed by a French architect but he couldn't remember the name to save his life (it was Pierre Pharoux and the house was made for Jacob Rutsen Van Rensselaer in 1805). The Western and Eastern styles came together to complement one another, symbolic of humanity, how very few differences between humans there really were, how these sides to humanity could work together in perfect harmony through the fabric of love itself. 

In the parlour, stacks of books covered a long table, books on Roman and Greek sculptures, European art, Indian film and literature, and an anthology on American civil rights. An art deco mirror hung over the fireplace, which was the first piece Ivory had bought for the house way back in the 70s, with Ismail looking fondly over his shoulder as he did. On the mantelpiece were candelabras and toill plates and pictures and postcards from friends and family. The room, itself, was octagonal, each segment of wall had a plaster roundel Ivory had commissioned in Buenos Aires.

 _How do you get to know so much_ ? Timmy wondered. _How do you turn from... someone like me... into someone like... him?_ Timmy didn't particularly think of himself as cultured or well-rounded. He couldn't go on poetic, impassioned lectures on the brilliance of art from beginning of the Ottoman Empire, or speak extensively upon the trivialities of domestic life in 1400 Cyprus or _whatever_.

 _I don't know_ anything _._

_It's not who are you before the film, it's who you become when shooting is over._

_Who will I be when all of this is over? When will it be "over" and what will I think of my life when I reach that point? Will I be proud? Will I have evidence of a full life?_

Timmy laughed a little out loud without meaning to and Julien looked up in surprise.

" _Désolé_ ," he said. The way Julien looked at him made him feel like he was being x-rayed, like Julien could see right through whatever protective shield Timmy had built around himself. Julien was astoundingly _pretty_.

He simply shrugged. " _Qu’est-ce que t’a fait rire_ ?" _What are you laughing about?_

" _Quelque chose de stupide_."

" _Dis-moi_."

Timmy shifted on the couch. "Just... uh... admiring all the things Mr. Ivory has all over his house."

Julien had a penetrating gaze. "So, what do you think?"

Now it was Timmy's turn to shrug. "I think he has achieved a kind of... existence... that I don't think I could ever achieve myself."

"Self-deprecating little thing, aren't you."

"Bingo."

"You honestly should get over it. Waste of time."

Timmy squinted. " _C’est un compliment_?"

_"Non, tu ne recevras pas de compliments de ma part."_

Timmy made a face. "Are you usually an asshole?"

"No, just a realist. Time you be a realist, too."

"What's even remotely real about what you're saying?" Timmy was so confused.

"Life's too short to worry so much about your future. Just focus on the moment."

"Is that what _you_ do?"

" _Évidemment_ ." _Obviously_.

"Well, you can afford to. I can't."

Julien laughed this time, harsh, sardonic, playful. "Why? You're what? Fifteen?"

"Nineteen."

"Same difference. So why? Why can't you afford to focus on the moment? Why do you think I can?"

"Because--" Timmy stumbled, losing track of his momentum; very quickly Julien had turned from a mystery man in and utter nuisance. "Because you're _you_ , man. I mean, just..." Oh, this was gonna come out so badly. "You...model and stuff."

"Oh, you think I'm because I'm hot shit, I’m more afforded the time to live in the moment, appreciate things?”

Timmy rolled his eyes. "No, but let's just say that's what I meant."

"It's totally what you meant."

"No one in their right mind would attest to that but whatever, go on."

Julien grinned. He knew he'd caught Timmy. "Looks matter, sure. It's showbiz, sweetie. But our careers still depend on being careful. I know you feel like you wanna rush through all this shit but if you rush any of it, you're gonna get yourself hurt or killed."

"Is that literally or--"

 _"Sois pas bête_ ." _Don’t be stupid._

" _Tu dis n’importe quoi_."

Julien made a face. He set his copy of the script off to the side and leaned forward. "Timothée. You are a brat of a child. But you're talented and you've caught the eyes of some important people. _Ne le gâche pas._ . Don't rush it. _Be in the moment_. And stop being such a little bitch. You're nineteen, not twelve."

"You just complimented me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Timmy huffed out and as he did so, it was like all the energy went out of him. "Fine." He slumped backwards into the couch and sighed. "Remember to breathe. It doesn't matter who you are before the film, it just matters who you become after. Sacrifices need to be made if you wanna achieve your honest-to-God goals."

"What's that?"

"Stuff important people have told me over the years."

"Sounds accurate to me."

"Did anyone important say that to you?"

That snarky grin returned making Julien look even more vampirish than before. "Nope. Never had that luxury. I had to learn it all on my own."

"Was it hard?"

"Well, fitting three dicks in your mouth can be kind of difficult--"

Timmy's face blanched. "Are you being literal again?"

"Probably not."

Timmy didn't retort this time. He just closed his eyes, pursed his lips, and continued to relax into the couch cushions. He was annoyed that he gave into Julien's dark humour, annoyed that Julien had such humour to begin with, and was frankly annoyed that he couldn't just relax and enjoy his time in this interesting house with these interesting and important people.

But it wasn't serious. He wasn't _seriously_ annoyed with anything. It was all just superficial, a sugar coating over his anxiety and intrigue.

"Well, at least you're being honest now." He glanced up. Julien had gone back to reading the script.

"Always honest," Julien responded swiftly, turning a page. "You should start reading this, you know. There are some scenes that I doubt even _you’d_ feel totally comfortable performing...in front of a camera. But.. that _is_ what you're here for."

"Oh. Uh." Timmy fumbled around for his script, opened it up. "What...what do you mean?"

"There's a rimming scene," Julien said with that now familiar grin, tinged with sly wickedness.

Timmy closed the script and stared at Julien, who finally looked up to meet his stare.

"I'm not kidding," he said, deadpan. "Turn to page seventy-two."

Timmy let his stare linger for about _five more seconds_ before he, with a dubious raise of the eyebrow, skipped to page seventy-two. He skimmed the page.

"Oh _fuck_ ," he said.

Julien smirked. "Yeah, that's kind of what I thought, too. Should we read it together?"

"You're more than welcome to read it by yourself. I've got earphones."

" _Quel enfant._ "

Timmy shrugged. " _J’ai dix-neuf ans, tu te souviens?_ "

Julien chuckled. " _Je commence à t’aimer bien_."

"The feeling isn't mutual." Timmy was being harsh but he felt it was sufficiently warranted. The feeling wasn't mutual; not that he believed, for a single second, that Julien's own sentiment was remotely sincere. He was condescending and sarcastic, which, when wielded rapidly and skillfully, became a deadly combination and Timmy didn't find it attractive.

"Oh, I doubt that."

"You're so in love with yourself."

"I'm not the narcissist in the room."

Timmy yawned. "If that's what you have to tell yourself..."

Julien stood up and it was so sudden that Timmy's mouth snapped shut in surprise.

" _Là je suis sérieux_ ," Julien continued, a little scathingly. _I'm actually being serious_ . " _Tu agis comme si tu te détestes et peut-être que c’est le cas. Peut-être qu'il y a ce petit coin sombre dans les recoins de ton esprit qui se moque de toi et qui te traîne dans un certain niveau de dégoût de soi-même. Mais je connais des gens comme toi. Tu veux tout. Tu veux le faire bien. Tu veux réussir. Tu te persuades que t’es rien, que tu ne vas nulle part et que tu ne mérites aucun éloge ou reconnaissance, mais la vérité c’est que tu en as envie. T’as soif de succès. T’as soif de talent et de compétence. Et cela nécessite un peu d’amour de soi. Il y en a qui disent que la recherche d'une renommée est un acte de narcissisme. Je ne pense pas._ If you call me a narcissist, you better examine yourself, too _. " You act like you hate yourself and maybe you do. Maybe there's this little dark corner in the recesses of your mind that taunts you and drags you into some level of self-loathing. But I know people like you. You want it all. You want to do well with this. You_ want _to succeed. You convince yourself that you're nothing, that you're going nowhere and that you don't deserve any praise or recognition, but you crave it. You crave success. You crave talent and skill. That takes a little bit of self-love. Some argue that striving for a fame is an act of narcissism. I don't think so. I think it's an act of survival. But whatever._

If you call me a narcissist, you better examine yourself, too.

The last line was a specific call-out and Timmy _felt_ that. Even though he’d more or less always been labelled a good kid, he knew how others sometimes perceived him: cocky, full of himself, arrogant, entitled. But those same people didn’t bother to see past those traits either, to see them for what they were: ambition motivated by insecurity and desire.

"... _tu es littéralement un mannequin pour gagner ta vie. T’as des milliers de photos de toi-même_..." Timmy was probably being intentionally thick at this point but he couldn't really motivate himself to be anything but.

"Because I _model,_ _je suis une_ marque." When Timmy continued to look blank, Julien actually sighed. " _Tu le sauras bientôt. Tu le devras faire et tu te rendras compte de ce qu'il faut faire non seulement pour bien faire mais aussi pour_ survivre _en le faisant_."

" _Tant de gens qui me donnent tant de leçons_." _So many lessons._

" _Et bah voilà. Apprends-les toutes. Puis plus tard, lorsque tu auras plus d'expérience, tu vas décider quelles leçons t’aideront vraiment et quelles ne le feront pas._ " _Learn them all. Then decide later which ones are useful._ Julien stretched. " _Je vais prendre un café. T’en veux_?"

" _Ouais_ …"

" _Reste ici. Je reviens._ "

Timmy watched Julien leave.

 

*

 

For the next ten days, Timmy studied the script with James Ivory, Walter Fasano, Peter Spears, and Bill Paxton. Sometimes, it was just Timmy and James. Sometimes, it was just Timmy, James and Julien, with Julien reading all the other parts and Timmy reading as Elio. And other times still, it would just be Julien and Timmy. Timmy would sometimes have his copy of the book beside the script, with passages he'd highlighted a while ago, plus notes he'd taken. He was glad to see that a lot of the passages he enjoyed had made it into the script. Including this infamous peach scene where Elio, the seventeen-year-old protagonist and narrator, had a moment of self-exploration involving a piece of fruit. There were also scenes added that weren't truly described in the book, only hinted at. Some of these scenes were explicit - such as the fingering scene, and an Elio-topping scene - and others were not - standing around in a restaurant, drunk and listening to a poet waxing about his life philosophies. There was an explicit scene involving Elio's parents that wasn't ever mentioned in the book. A few other bits of dialogue, clever and subtle, others a little more outrageous but beautiful just the same. James Ivory had literally written the words "they fuck" in one part of the script and it was no less beautiful than anything else and Timmy found this hilariously amazing. He was also particularly grateful that the majority of Mr. Perlman's speech to Elio towards the end of the book had made it into the script. Timmy fondly patted his zealously highlighted and battered copy of the book. 

He and Julien bonded over French pop culture and their own tales from the set, whether it was for film or modelling. They spent a lot of time giggling over stupid shit when everyone went out for dinner at the Red Dot, a bar and restaurant in the Hudson Valley. Afterward, Julien and Timmy split a bottle of wine and the giggling became incessant until Ivory told them to go to bed already because _dear god, these stupid (wonderful) kids were wearing down his nerves like a cheese grater!_   

"I bet you wish I was playing Oliver instead of Shia LeBeouf," Julien said one night.

"That's not confirmed."

"Not _yet_."

" _Va-t-en_."

" _Je pense que je vais rester_."

" _Ne me parle pas alors._ "

Julien just laughed. He and Timmy fell asleep on the couch to some French comedy series that neither remembered much from in the morning.

At the end of the ten days, they swapped snaps and that was it. Timmy didn't know who he was going to miss more: James Ivory, or the house. Hell, maybe he'd miss Julien after all. Julien had been difficult,  brutal, and disparaging at times, but Timmy had learnt never to take him too seriously. A friendship hadn't blossomed really; Julien may have grown to have something akin to affection for Timmy but there was still this weird _adult_ and _otherworldly_ air to Julien that Timmy couldn't comprehend. Maybe something could happen in the future though. 

"I'll see you at the Oscars," was the last thing Julien said to Timmy and before Timmy could overcome his shock say "thanks," Julien was in his car and gone.

James Ivory was officially regarded as a legend in Timmy's eyes. His input and his perspectives continued to reflect the depth of his own experiences and life. Timmy couldn't relate to most of them but, unlike Julien's fortified defenses and eye-rolling cynical world view, Timmy could _understand_ them.

He came away from that little study-holiday with a new lesson:

 

 _just live_.

 

**March 2016**

 

The month was drawing to a close and as it did, there was this feeling of worlds coming together. Timmy didn't know why that feeling existed. Filming didn't start for another month. Maybe it was because his strange loneliness was about to be either interrupted or perpetuated as actors arrived at various times. Armie Hammer was expected to show up a week into April. Esther Garrel, who was to play Marzia, a love interest of Elio's, was expected to show up a couple weeks after that. Amira Casar, Michael Stuhlbarg, and Victoire DuBois would be on their way soon after _that_. 

Crema wasn't New York City. It lacked Giullian and Kristina. It lacked Will. It lacked Jake. It lacked Michael. It lacked his Uncle Rodman and his sister Pauline. But it was a home away from home nonetheless. And if Timmy had had the power of the gods, he would have smashed the two cities next to each other so he could wander from one to the next in less time than it took to bike to _Speranza_ (a pizzeria he'd discovered four days ago but still hadn't eaten at - he'd only peered inside, out of curiosity more than anything else).

He meandered across the _piazza_ , kicking the toe of his shoe against an exposed brick. It bit him back through the shoe and he swore quietly, half-heartedly, like he didn’t mean it. Crema was small. It had 30,000 residents. It wasn’t a hole in the wall, but it wasn’t really a destination either. It was a bridge, to get from Point A to Point B. But for Timmy, it _was_ Point B and C...and D...and so on. It wasn’t just the struggle to get the film funded (Luca had even said that there was a big possibility, in spite of all of these preparations, that the film could still be cancelled) with certain buyers looking into it if various script changes were made; it wasn’t the fact that even though the film was struggling with funding, the crew held on with high hopes and already some forums were (discretely) mentioning awards (something Timmy fantasised about almost every night), Crema was a place you didn’t venture to to have a typical sort of fun. It wasn’t a place you went to to really do anything more than escape human nature. If it weren’t for all the graffiti, Timmy would have thought this was a pretty thorough notion.

Crema, in spite of its bloody past, was an innocent.

Parking his bike, Timmy plopped himself into a chair near Caffè Marini and gazed around the _Duomo_ . He was a little disappointed with himself, with the fact that he hadn’t visited even a fifth of the places Luca had suggested, but at the same time, he figured he still had two months before all was said and done - _if_ the film met budget requirements. And, of course, he’d most likely be back for post-production. Maybe. He’d visited the post office the other day to send a couple packages to his mother and grandmother. They’d requested a few things and Timmy contentedly obliged. There was a gelato shop not far from his apartment, too, that he’d wandered into. He knew gelato was the best thing ever and it reminded him of home, of Little Italy, which had its moments of authenticity if you knew where to go. There was a violin shop he’d spotted and also sort of glanced in. The owner informed him, in decent English, that they had a sister shop in Suwanee, Georgia. Timmy had nodded politely, plucked a few strings of the Cremona violins, and left. People treated him very kindly, for the most part. They engaged his curiosity and while some of the elderly members of the population would start to get nostalgic, overall, Timmy got a taste of a bunch of little things without having to exert too much effort.  

 _Speranza_ was located on _Via Suor Maria di Crocifissa di Rosa_ and for a good reason because right near it, at a cross section of streets that led straight back to the _Duomo_ , there was a beautiful church called _Casa Parrochiale SS T_ _rinità_ . Timmy had snapped a quick picture of the facade and squinted up at the designs. He could just make out a triangle carved into the facade with an eye in the middle, surrounded by what looked to be angels, maybe, cherubs. He didn’t know why the All-Seeing Eye would be on the front of a Catholic church (to be fair, Timmy didn’t really know a lot about religion anyway and what he _did_ know was basic Jewish stuff from his family, and some Islamic things from a couple friends at LaGuardia) so he raised his iPhone, zoomed in, and tried to get a decent picture of that, too. He’d ask Luca about it later. Luca knew everything. He’d tried to go into the church but it was closed and Timmy made a note to come back later.

Along the way back to his flat, he stopped at _Maccalli Panne & Dolce _ , a small bread shop, and grabbed a couple tubs of snacks. He would have preferred, like, a bag of _Ruffles_ or _Doritos_ but he hadn’t seen a place to buy anything like that since Milan. He texted the pictures of the church to Pauline, who responded enthusiastically. Via FaceTime, Timmy asked her about the eye and she didn’t have an answer either but she remembered hearing about the symbol in connection to churches.

“Isn’t it related to, like… the masons?” Timmy recalled hearing about that in some movie, probably one with Nicholas Cage in it. Or Tom Hanks. He couldn’t remember.

“Yeah, they use the symbol as a reminder that every action is seen by God. But I don’t really remember much more than that.”

“Isn’t it weird that the Catholic church would use the same symbol?”

Pauline shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m sure the Catholic church doesn’t use the symbol anymore. They’re definitely _not_ in alignment with the masons. Let me know what Luca says.”

They talked a little while longer, Pauline sitting on his handlebars  in the form of Timmy’s iPhone, as Timmy biked home. Pauline talked about the weather in France, some of the film and dance projects she was getting into, a boy, and peppered Timmy with a million questions. Timmy didn’t tell of her of his building apprehension and nervousness about meeting Armie Hammer soon. He figured he’d call her right before it happened, probably. Before things went to the dogs. But he did mention Will’s oblique silence.

“Oh, Timmy, what did you do?”

“Nothing! I swear! It’s just like… one moment we were chillin’ and the next he’s all like… calling me an asshole. Doesn’t offer any explanation. Leaves me fucking hanging.” Timmy recounted the conversation to Pauline who took a moment to give him a very steady, very deadpan expression before facepalming.

“Tim, just call him. Apologise--”

“For what?”

“Just apologise. Say you’re sorry for being insensitive and that you miss him. He should forgive you.”

Timmy frowned as he parked his bike and locked it up. “Pauline, what aren’t you telling me?”

“It doesn’t matter, little brother. Just follow my instructions and all will be good again. Oh, and uh, it’s probably wise not to mention your sexual exploits again for a while.”

When Tim arrived at his flat, he threw everything onto the kitchen counter and plopped down on his sofa. His heart ached. He stared at his phone for a while and then dialed New York.

“Hey, Will? It’s Tim. Please call me back. I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I got...carried away. Just...please call me. I can’t stand the amount of time that’s passed since I last heard your voice.” Pause. “All right, well… if you don’t get back to me, I hope you’re still going to come to set. Luca wants to meet you… Have a good night, man.”

Timmy let his phone drop to his chest and blew out a puff of air. He felt frail. Overwhelmed. He did actually feel like an asshole. Frustrated, annoyed with himself, he slipped his phone under a throw pillow, curled on his side and closed his eyes. He really wanted the key to Will’s rubik's cube.

_Just live._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to momo for the french translations. thank you for studying timmy's french speech patterns and mistakes, even, that was super cool of you. this chapter wouldn't have the feel to it that i believe it does if it weren't for your assistance, thank you, thank you, thank you.


	6. dude, where's my costar?

On the very last day in March, Luca invited Tim to join him at the villa in Moscazzano. It would be Timmy’s third trip to the villa and hey, it was an excuse to take a break from lessons and sleep in. It was a Thursday. Luca had suggested that Timmy could take Friday off, too, if he wanted, since Solci had other obligations in Verona for the next four days. Tim was sorely tempted but at the last second, he said he’d rather keep going with his workouts, guitar, and Italian, lest he fall into lazy habits. Luca nodded in approval and they got into his car.

In the car, Luca and Timmy enthusiastically battled for control over the radio and Luca finally relented, allowing Timmy to play music from his iPhone. Luca made a playful face and bobbed his head to some Kid Cudi as Timmy insisted, _insisted_ , that Luca would really appreciate the music more if he listened to the lyrics. The trip was spent with Luca joking about Timmy’s music tastes and the tastes of _youth these days_ but it was obvious he meant none of his remarks. It was obvious that Luca was simply delighted by Timmy’s company and constantly enthralled by him. Timmy, not used to such openness and praise, basked in it like a flower deprived of sunlight.

Down _Via Montodine_ , they pulled into the long winding driveway that would take them to the villa. The gate was already open and an array of production vans were parked outside. Luca parked in between two civilian cars and when Timmy got out, he saw more production vans situated around the villa entrance. People were already busy, unloading things from the trucks and vans. They were taking advantage of the sunlight before the oncoming storms. Weather was in the mid to high sixties but felt warmer due to the humidity and sunshine. Timmy felt the weather coat his bare skin like a gel and he shivered.

A phone rang. Luca reached into his pocket, stared at the caller ID, his face hardening. Timmy glanced at him questioningly but Luca waved a hand and said, “Please wander, Timothée.”

In four days, Armie Hammer would be on set and then reality would actually start to feel less abstract. As Luca turned away to take his call, Timmy ran a hand through his hair, swatted away a mosquito, and walked up the steps and into the villa. People were bustling about. Several stopped to say hello but others ignored him as they hurried back and forth, carrying all kinds of items from the trucks and into the halls. Construction ladders were propped against walls, boxes were stacked atop one another, plywood moving boards and dollies leaned precariously against each other. As Timmy walked down the central hall, he heard Violante’s ringing voice as she gave orders on where to place certain items. As soon as she saw Timmy, she smiled widely.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you!” As though she hadn’t just seen him four days ago. She turned and glanced around her, adding, “We’ve made so much progress. But we still have so long to go. What do you think?”

“I think it looks great. But I…” Timmy also let his eyes wander, “...how can you be so confident that we’re going to get the funding? So much decorating has been done but… we don’t even know...”

Violante’s smile was softer this time. “The film will be made, Timothée,” she said, a little mysteriously. “I have a good instinct for these things. Trust Luca.”

 _Trust Luca_. That’s what Brian had said.

“He’s very good at getting what he wants,” she continued. “He’s very persuasive. Let Luca do all the fighting, okay? You just worry about perfecting your Italian and music.”

When Timmy nodded wordlessly, she just said, “Why don’t you take a wander upstairs and see what we’ve done with the place? There are some items on Elio’s bed that Luca wants you to go through. Choose the ones you think fit Elio the most.”

Curiously, Timmy made his way upstairs and stood, looking down the main corridor. He let his feet drag over the floors, which had been recently redone, and were still dusty from the installation. The painting had been completed and the walls were stark white, and occasionally adorned with paintings. An armoire was positioned between two doorways, probably filled with towels and bed linens, but Timmy didn’t open it up. Instead, he entered a bedroom, the one, he supposed, belonged to his character, Elio. On the bed were stacks of papers: posters Luca, Violante, Marco, and others had donated to the set.  He sat gingerly as though afraid of making wrinkles in the blankets. He picked up the pile of posters; they felt heavy and cumbersome in his hands. There were posters that featured singers who were popular at the time from Bowie to Queen, Billie Joel, Floyd, Peter Gabriel and Blondie. Another stack consisted of posters that featured art that Elio might appreciate, things from posters of Jascha Heifetz, Isaac Stern, Pablo Casal, Salvador Dali, Klimt and Klint, Kandinsky, Mondrian,  Cézanne, Merz, Rothko, Mapplethorpe and Monet. There was a stylised poster of Franz Liszt. Another art deco one of Rachmaninov. There was a cartoon one of Clara Schumann playing for a concert of what Tim assumed were lesbians in the audience. It was very _gay pride_ and Tim liked it a lot. But as he considered Elio’s internalised homophobia, he wasn’t sure it would be quite appropriate for the character. Then again… it was of female sexuality, not male and… Timmy bit his lip, lost in thought. He set it aside anyway, along with Queen, Peter Gabriel, Blondie, Prince, and Bowie. He also set aside Rothko and Mapplethorpe, Mario Merz, and Liszt. He came across a poster that said “Bayreuth, La Ville de Richard Wagner” and decided he liked the colour scheme, even though he had no idea what Bayreuth was. He was _pretty sure_ that Wagner was a German composer. Or Austrian. No. German.

He set down the second pile and then rummaged through the smaller third pile. It seemed to be miscellaneous. But as Timmy flipped through them, he saw that most of them were posters of Porsches. He picked one out and stared at it. His weight was heavy on the bed as he held the poster in his hands; he had no idea that Luca had paid so much attention to him, remembered the story that had been brought up weeks ago, the one where Timmy had ventured to a car show in Paris and had stared longingly at a specific Porsche, the one with the girl with the rainbow eyes standing next to it, showing it off, as if such a fine specimen needed such showcasing. He felt so _known,_ so _important_ to this small project they were all working on and it took his breath away.

Timmy nodded, like he was coming to a decision, and reached into his pocket. He knew it was a little early in New York and there was a possibility that Will was at work, but he needed to try anyway. Perhaps he was inspired by all the art and music around him. He quickly double-checked some dates and dialed. As expected, Will didn’t answer, so Tim just sighed and said into the voicemail, “I know you expressed interest in seeing the, uh, unfinished exhibit at the Met this summer, you know, the one where they’re displaying incomplete art pieces? I’d really like to do that with you, if that’s cool. There’s also this thing on the roof, too, that I wanna check out. It’d be really fucking awesome if you came with me. So yeah. Talk to you later.”

He flopped backwards onto the bed. The bed itself made no sense to him. Why have two beds that clearly belong together in a bedroom meant for a single human being? Why not just have one giant bed so there’s no fear of the beds being pushed apart during things like sex? Timmy laughed aloud at himself and found himself wishing that Will was there to hear him laugh. He knew Will would smile at the sound, could picture it so _clearly_ …

Timmy took a moment to think of all the people in his life who loved him. He thought of his family and close friends. And now, he realised, he could add Luca to that list.

Will might still be mad at him, for whatever reason. But Timmy was _here_ , in Crema, doing what he enjoyed doing best, knowing he had fantastic support system. It was a step up from how he felt about his life four or five years ago, for sure.

He didn’t think he was grateful enough to know such love.

 

**April 2016**

It was her hand in his that calmed his jitters. It was her sleeping expression, the way her eyebrows knitted together just the smallest bit, the way her lips were slightly parted, the way her hair cascaded over her shoulders, all of these things frozen in a moment that encouraged Armie to finally relax long enough to doze. He'd been overthinking, he'd been in a mood, he'd been feeling a deep set nervousness that he wasn't sure he could explain. But the tension seeped out of him as his lids grew heavier and his head lolled to the side. His grip on Elizabeth's hand loosened and with the conciliatory drone of the airplane engine humming around him, he finally fell asleep.

_There was a lot of light, like sunshine, but no sun. Wood chips. A forest. Light peeking through branches, casting specks of brilliance across shadows upon shadows. A playground - one of those metal dome structures that kids could climb was in the forefront; it was rusty from lack of care and use. Children's laughter, but no children. Harper's hand in his but Harper wasn't two anymore but thirteen. The number popped into Armie's head, though he had no idea how it had gotten there. She just looked straight ahead and into his eyes at the same time. Blue met blue. Neither of them said anything. They communicated through a gazeless stare and through their hands touching, father, daughter, daughter, father._

_When Harper disappeared, Armie wasn’t surprised. He didn’t feel fear. He was left standing, staring at the playground, knowing that his daughter was okay, wherever she went. At the same time though, he knew he should probably look for her so he forced himself to turn away from the playground and look towards the woods. He took off at a brisk jog, kicking up wood chips and pine needles, until the wood chips were replaced by leaves and twigs._

_He called out to his daughter loudly, but silently, mouth moving to form the words, but no sound coming out. All that could be heard was his breathing, heavy, ragged, like he was scared even though he still felt no fear. No worry. No concern. He still knew that she was okay._

_Armie slowed down his pace. The trees moved closer. The foliage changed from pine to broad-leafed, as large as elephant ears, bent over like elderly ladies and even wiser. Armie moved the leaves aside gently, reverently, and because of his tender touches, they moved easily to allow him through and through and through._

_It was raining. As it rained, the colour began to seep out of the world, but not into a dreary black and white, but into a vintage fade. It was more like… black and white at first glance, but at second glance, you saw hints of colour. Armie wanted to laugh. It was like a scene outta fuckin’_ Pleasantville _. But more_ blended _, if that made any goddamn sense._

 _Harper’s presence was gone but it didn’t matter. Armie had already moved on. He was beneath a willow tree. Its tendrils caressed him with the wind. He didn’t see the piano in its fullness when he_ did _see it. Instead, he saw it only from an angle, like he was standing right by one side, looking over the keys. A curly-haired figure was hunched over the keys, face hidden from view, nimble fingers dancing across rain-splattered keys. This was in that slight black and white, too, but with only the barest shades of colour._

_Something inside him pinged. Like an actual ping - like the sound of wind chimes but it only lasted for a second or two. Or someone striking a triangle. Except instead of just sound, Armie felt it in his chest. He wanted to reach out and touch those hands; they were lean, long-fingered, fragile. He wanted to run his hands through that hair. It was getting wet but not as fast as it should, logically. Armie could see raindrops bubbled up on strands of hair. He could see the smallest hint of a sharp, angular face. A jawline. The tip of a nose. Long eyelashes._

Look at me _, Armie willed silently, feeling the music flowing through his veins though he couldn’t make out any of the notes or the rhythm or the tempo. He had no idea what he was listening to except that in this state, he knew it was beautiful._ Please look at me _._

He opened his eyes. It took him a moment to realise he wasn’t in a shallow forest made of trees with exotic leaves, but in a metal cylinder flying 35,000 feet in the air. Elizabeth glanced over at him. She put a hand on his arm. Armie blinked, trying to drag himself back into reality.

“Time to change,” she said. She’d already changed. Armie wondered how long she’d been awake. He looked down at his lucky pants, blue, with the Ralph Lauren _Polo_ logo all over them. He wore these whenever he needed to feel comfortable and while this wasn’t every plane ride, this particular plane ride genuinely warranted it. In just a few short hours, he was going to stumble into another world and he wanted to be fucking prepared.

If that was even possible with a director like Luca Guadagnino.

Armie excused himself -- a half-assed mumble of some kind, some language -- and escaped to the bathroom to change (a very difficult feat, indeed, when you’re well over six feet tall). When he came back, the seat-belt light flicked on with a warning chime. A British voice spoke over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Marston; it is currently 9:56 A.M. Central European Time. The temperature is a beautiful 20 degrees Celsius, or 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Winds are mild. We will be landing in approximately twenty-three minutes. Descent will begin momentarily.”

The intercom chimed again as the message was repeated in French and Italian.

A flight attendant spoke:

“Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed underneath the seat in front of you or in the overhead bins. Thank you.”

And again, the message was repeated in French and Italian.

Armie took Elizabeth’s hand in his and tried to calm his racing heart. But he was at war with the speed of the airline itself and his nerves would not stop tingling. It was as though he had consumed way too much coffee. Niki knew Archie’s feeding schedule. Harper was still fast asleep, unperturbed by the flight turbulence and intercom interludes. They _had_ set the alarms and locked the doors. Yes, he’d remembered to check to make sure the garage lights were off - he still needed to get that wiring fixed… He had made sure to bring back up chargers and cords, along with several travel adapters,  for his phones and laptop. He _had_ cleared his schedule for the next two and a half months, right?

Right.

He had contracts and copies of the script with him. He had a hard copy of the book, highlighted and dog-eared. He’d paid the utilities up to their departure. He had his notebooks, where he’d meticulously copied every line of dialogue from the script, over and over, and over in his immaculate cursive handwriting. Made sure all his credit card payments were on bill pay and perfectly on schedule. Elizabeth had done the majority of the clothes packing and he definitely trusted her to get that right. She rarely made such obvious mistakes. He, Armie, was the klutz, the absent-minded one. Back in the day, he was known to leave without his passport or boarding passes or itineraries. That was also back when his team was small, less helpful. Nowadays, his team wasn’t much larger, but they were infinitely more helpful.

“The Armie Hammer effect,” he muttered aloud to himself. Elizabeth squeezed his hand. The plane met the runway like two old friends greeting each other.

“The Elizabeth Chambers effect,” she amended, knowing where his mind was going, her mind chasing his down that dark tunnel and rescuing him before he fell into an utter pit of darkness. Elizabeth was good at a lot of things: image and PR were two things, sure. She was a perfectionist after all. But in her perfectionism, she was also able to spot his mindset from miles away, and even more quickly, to the point that it felt like mind-reading. She knew when his mind was heading into the abyss and she caught it and saved it whenever she could.

“Thank you,” he said to her, knowing she would get it without explanation. He could feel her smile.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Marston speaking.  Welcome to Milan-Malpensa Airport. Local time is 10:20 A.M. and we have arrived right on schedule.  Local temperature is 20 degrees Celsius or 68 degrees Fahrenheit. For your safety and comfort, please remain seated with your seat-belt fastened until I turn off the Fasten Seat-belt sign. At this time, you may use your cellular phones if you wish. If you require deplaning assistance, please remain in your seat until all other passengers have deplaned. One of our crew members will then be pleased to assist you. On behalf of British Airways and the entire crew, I’d like to thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to seeing you on board again in the near future. Have a nice day!”

*

 

 

Stephan Bodzin hummed in the background on the way into Crema. Elizabeth and Harper chatted amongst each other. Armie was lost in thought. Well, actually, his thoughts were pretty empty. Or maybe he had _too many_ thoughts and they just melded into one incomprehensible soup inside his muddled brain. Either way, it was a lose-lose situation and so his words were few and noncommittal. He didn’t feel _bad,_ perse, simply not all quite there. Without a word, Elizabeth handed him a strip of beef-jerky (gluten free) and Armie gnawed on it as he drove.

He _hadn’t_ checked the light in the garage, he was now sure of it. He sighed aloud at this. But Niki always had keys so surely, Niki would turn it off. Armie made a mental note he was likely to forget to text Niki later, or tomorrow, or sometime soon. He didn’t need another unwarranted hit on his electric bill.

When Armie arrived in Crema and pulled into the parking lot beside _il Palazzo Premoli,_ he didn’t know that his breathing was timed exactly with someone else’s, someone who was metres away from him.

“We can leave most of the luggage in the car,” Armie said. “I just want to grab the essentials, say hey to Luca, and crash.”

“And maybe say hello to Timothy?” Elizabeth asked. Armie yawned. That was a good idea.

“Yeah, sure, if he’s around.”

He was suddenly very energised.

 _Il Premoli_ wasn’t particularly impressive from the outside, not if one had much experience with Italian architecture. Armie remembered from his conversations with Luca that the building was built in the 17th century. It looked strong, but unassuming. And, not so surprisingly, it blended in with the buildings around it. Or, perhaps, more accurately, the nearby buildings blended in with _Il Premoli._ There was an archway entrance, with a wrought iron gate. An eagle sculpture guarded the entrance, his stare austere and firm, enduring, its chest adorned with a necklace consisting of thirty-three beads symbolising Patrini patronage.

Armie, Elizabeth, and Harper were buzzed in quickly. There was a portico, with five significant arches overlooking the courtyard. To his right, Armie spotted the Lebanese cedar that Luca had mentioned, a rarity in Italy. It towered protectively over its designated corner, a guardian of its own right. He and Elizabeth exchanged a glance.

Plowing forward, Armie tripped on something, probably his own feet, and in the midst of doing so, he let go of his rolling luggage as he lurched forward to catch himself. “ _Fuck_.”

At that same moment, Timmy’s fingers slipped on the piano keys, butchering a tricky grace note hidden in a simple eighth note run. “Shit,” he said. “Sorry,” he added, seeing Solci’s raised eyebrows.

Armie led the way to the front door, reached for his phone from his pocket and dialed Luca. His phone lagged a little before it connected to its cell service.  Luca didn’t waste time saying more than “come in” before hanging up. The door opened and there was the man himself: Luca Guadagnino.

They embraced. Armie apologised for his dishevelled appearance, which Luca waved away before embracing Elizabeth and stooping to say hello to Harper. Harper smiled up at him shyly, her grip on her mother’s hand tightening just a fraction. Armie didn’t blame her. Luca looked as though he’d been electrocuted, with his hair standing up in all directions, his eyes a little too wide and his smile a tad too intimidating. If Luca had been born an animal, it would have been an eagle or a hawk or some other equally intense bird of prey.  Armie thought it was a perfect look for a director though he said nothing of this aloud. Luca mentioned having someone carry their bags into their apartments but since they were on the first floor and Armie’s exhaustion seemed to have evaporated in the last seventeen minutes, Armie graciously declined, saying they could get themselves settled, but thank you so very much.

Worlds were colliding.

The apartment inside the _palazzo_ was small and cozy, but with vaulted ceilings that were covered in chipping frescoes. There was an entrance way with a tiny wall table with a stack of art books, and a lamp perched upon it. Beyond that was the largest room, the den, with a round, oak table and ornate wooden chairs. It was filled with light from a window that overlooked the courtyard. There was a small kitchen with sunrise yellow walls and ivory tiling. Copper toned pots and pans hung from hooks on one wall. The bedroom consisted of a four poster bed, a nightstand, and an ornate Persian carpet. Like the living room, it was filled with light from a massive window, bordered by a variety of renaissance art. Bookcases took up an entire wall. Elizabeth was particularly pleased with the bathroom and its claw bathtub. The tub was so deep, it went up to Elizabeth’s stomach and looked like it could fit three or four people in it comfortably.

“I think I know where you’re going to spend a lot of your time,” Armie said cheekily. Elizabeth hummed a retort and, after setting their luggage by their bed, busied herself with picking up Harper

“Oh, Armie, this whole place is beautiful. But you’re right. That bathtub is _superb_.” She glanced around happily. “Why don’t you go say hello while I begin unpacking?”

Armie stood up and stretched. Timmy paused from his cadenza to stretch with his arms behind his head. He then cracked his knuckles, feeling a zing of electricity zip through him.

“Mm...what makes you think I’m not just going to fall into bed and not wake up for six days?” Armie asked.

Elizabeth laughed, doing that toss of her head she always did, the one that signalled “oh _please_ ” in the lightest of manners. “We’ll _see_. Go on. Get introductions over with so we can nap.”

Armie glanced at her and Harper, eyebrows furrowed with uncertainty. Elizabeth gave him an encouraging “shoo!” gesture and so he headed towards Luca’s apartment. Piano music echoed throughout the stairwell but Armie couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from. It was beautiful. It sounded like a recording. Armie paused for a moment to listen to the unfamiliar music.

Timmy overdid a crescendo, which caused him to laugh at himself. Armie smiled though he couldn’t hear the laugh. He moved upward.

The stairwell, he mused, was surprisingly unfurnished and garish compared to the rest of the building. It lacked intricacy and felt more akin to the stairwells one would find in a typical American parking garage. But when Armie reached Luca’s flat, he knocked without complaint. The music was fainter up there.

Luca answered. “Do you want to come in? You look too tired, Armie. You should rest.” The music was definitely not coming from Luca’s apartment.

“I’m exhausted,” he admitted. “But I wanted to say hello to Timmy before going AWOL for the next twenty-four hours.”

Luca tilted his head. “He’s in a piano lesson.” _Ah, so that’s where the music’s coming from…_

“Can I go say hi?”

“Well, he’s a bit busy--”

“It’ll just be a minute, I promise.”

“Roberto Solci is very--”

“Luca... _please_.”

Luca snorted, like he’d expected the argument all along. He did his signature hand gesture and said, “Be my guest. Downstairs. Across from your apartment.”

Legs like lead, Armie made his way back downstairs and stood in front of Solci’s apartment. He raised his hand to knock but noticed that the door was actually open by a couple inches already so he pushed it open.

Worlds collided.

 _Holy shit_.

“Tim _may_!” he said really, really enthusiastically. “Hey, man, it’s me, Armie!”

The music stopped abruptly. Timmy’s eyes were locked on his, like a deer in headlights. _Whoa_. He glanced at Solci. Solci sighed.

“We should hang out,” Armie continued, forgetting he was actually exhausted.

“I--uh--” Timmy couldn’t decide whether to laugh or frown or feign offense. He didn’t even realise that his own body had tensed, prepared to bolt from his seat and join Armie Hammer for whatever the fuck it was Armie Hammer wanted to do. Timmy didn’t even _realise_ that, _in that moment_ , he would have been happy watching paint dry if it meant hanging out with Armie Hammer. Anxiety  threatened to swallow his eagerness and then politeness took precedence. He turned to Solci. He read Solci’s firm gaze like an open book. _Fuck_. Hiding a small sigh, Timmy said more evenly than he thought possible, “I… yeah, man, that sounds great, but I gotta finish this lesson, so-- uh-- after?”

Armie paused. “Oh, yeah, right. Sorry about that. Dinner then? Show me some good authentic Italian cuisine?”

Timmy didn’t really know what constituted as “authentic Italian cuisine.” He’d just figured he was in Italy...it was _all_ authentic Italian. But what did he know about food anyway? He was good with a bagel and cream cheese from a nearby deli. Throat filled with gravel, he barely managed to scrape out a “Yeah, dinner sounds like a good idea.” His nerves threatened to rip themselves out of his body. What a terrible feeling. He didn’t know that Armie had caught all of his micro expressions, that Armie had subconsciously stored them in his head for later perusal. Hell, even _Armie_ was unaware that he did this.

“Great, man, see you in a bit?”

Timmy glanced at Solci. “In…”

Solci’s eyes slid to his wall clock. “Thirty-eight minutes,” he said, lips pursed in amusement.

When Armie left, Timmy felt his world shift again. He had such trouble concentrating on the rest of the lesson, Solci let him go ten minutes early. Then he did actually bolt from the room.

*

Luca leaned against the door frame. _"Già finita la lezione?_ ” Lesson over?

Solci ran a hand through his nearly non-existent hair. “ _Il ragazzo è corso via come un fulmine_ .” Kid left like he’d been struck by lightning.  
  
The corners of Luca’s lips twitched. “ _Ah, davvero?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all invented words are, uh, intended...?
> 
> also credit to klausbergheimer on flickr for the premoli photo, viel dank


	7. talking, talking, talking

_Day and night_  
_I toss and turn_  
_I keep stress in my mind, mind_  
_I look for peace_  
_But see I don't attain_  
_What I need for keeps_  
_This silly game we play, play_  
_Now look at this_  
_Madness the magnet_  
_Keeps attracting me, me_  
_I try to run_  
_But see I'm not that fast_  
_I think I'm first  
_ _But surely finish last, last_

 _\- Day ‘n’ Night,_ Kid Cudi

 

“Aren’t you tired?” Timmy asked as they drew out chairs from either side of the table. Armie had asked for a recommendation and Timmy, thinking briefly of where he met Matteo, suggested Caffè Marini.

Armie laughed, sounding a little strained. “Yeah, but it’s fine, man. We have a whole month to relax before filming begins.”

Timmy considered putting a leg up on the table but then felt that might be rude. He shrugged and grinned. “Nervous?”

Armie gazed out across the _piazza._  “I’m about as nervous as I am with anything,” he said casually, lying through his teeth. He was aware that Timmy was staring at him, taking in everything about him, watching him, analysing him, too, probably. It made him feel even more self-conscious. Had he shaved okay? Did he still have the bags under his eyes? Armie ran a hand over his chin, nodding to himself, satisfied. With a broad grin, he turned to Timmy. “You?”

Timmy smacked his lips together. “Yeah, kinda. Maybe more than I thought I would be. Filming always gets me hyped up and anxious.” When Armie said nothing, Timmy added hastily, “But Italy’s great. And… and the whole crew is really awesome. Sayombhu hands out little trinkets from his homeland and Gaia makes bouquets of flowers that she places at the table when we all eat together. Violante likes to give little history lessons; she’s travelled a lot.”

“‘Violante? Gaia? Sayombhu?’” Armie asked.

“Oh yeah. Gaia is a landscaper? And Sayombhu Mukdeeprom is our cinematographer. He’s from Thailand. Violante Visconte di Madrone. She’s one of the set designers. She’s, like, super well-travelled. She was teaching me about some of the things she used to design the villa.”

At Armie’s continued blank expression, Timmy said quickly, “Oh, you haven’t been to the villa yet. It’s called Villa Albergoni and it’s in Moscazzano. Luca wanted to head there tomorrow.”

Armie was a little jealous that Timmy already knew so much. But he was also thrilled to have such a competent teacher. And they had a whole fucking month to talk, learn, explore. He was struck by how young and old Timmy seemed simultaneously - at times, he’d get this faraway look in his eyes and his voice would get real low and he would seem ancient, like an old man trapped in a young body. Other times, his giddiness and hyperactivity would get the best of him and his earnest honesty reminded Armie of the naivete of youth. He wasn’t sure what he’d actually expected but whatever it was, it wasn’t what ended up being the truth. “So,” Armie said, trying not to sound as offhand as he felt, “tell me a bit about yourself?”

Timmy groaned. “Ragghh... we’re going to do introductions like that? Okay, okay, I can play this game. What would you like to know?”

Armie laughed, endeared by Timothée’s honesty.. “I dunno, man. Maybe we can start with the correct pronunciation of your first name?”

“Oh, oh, yeah, I guess that _is_ a good place to start, huh. Well, it’s Timothée. Tee-moh-teh. Like the accented ‘e’ is kind of a cross between ‘eh’ and ‘ay.’ It’s, uh, French.”

“Timothée”

“Yeah, that’s it, wow. Most people don’t get it on the first try.” Timmy sounded genuinely impressed.

Armie was quietly pleased with himself. “Do you know a lot of people named Timothée?”

Timmy frowned. “Uh...no. Nope. Just...just me.”

“I used to get the baking soda joke all the time as well as puns on my last name ranging from incredibly unoriginal to inexplicably absurd. Be grateful that you don’t have any sexual innuendos tied to your name.” Armie flashed him a grin filled with perfect teeth and Timmy was moved by it. _This is a guy who could get anything he wanted just by smiling at someone._  

“No, but my middle name is ‘Hal’ and let me tell you, man, that name has gotten me in trouble.”

Armie laughed again and it made Timmy happy that he was actually being seen as _funny_ and not the big bundle of nerves he was. “‘Hal’? _Hal?_ All I can think about is that abysmal comedy with Gwyneth Paltrow. I think it was called _Shallow Hal._ ” 

“ _Noooo_ ,” Timmy moaned. “Don’t do that to me! _God_. I don’t think I’ve even seen that movie but it sounds _worse_.”

Armie took a bite from his food. “You aren’t missing anything. But as much as I put down that film, I probably still would have taken the role had it been offered to me.” He added the last sentence as an afterthought.

Timmy’s eyebrows shot upward. He couldn’t tell if Armie was joking or not. “Oh, come _on_ , you wouldn’t.”

Armie chewed thoughtfully. “Yep, I would,” he said, swallowing. “I think I’d say yes to any project at this point.” Armie cringed inwardly at himself, he sounded so desperate.

“I thought you’d almost said no to this role though.”

Armie looked up sharply. “Where did you hear that?”

“My agent. Brian Swardstrom.”

Sighing, Armie said, “Yeah, I almost said no. It didn’t seem like my type of film.”

Timmy nodded as though he understood. “I think I can get that. But I’m at a point in my career that there aren’t many projects _I’d_ say no to. I’m an unknown so saying no seems… kind of rude.”

Armie took another bite of his _brasato con patate al forno_ and considered his words. “Just don’t think you have to do something truly uncomfortable to get to the top.”

“I won’t compromise my moral integrity,” Timmy said adamantly, sounding older than he was for just a moment, remembering some of Julien’s vulgar ambiguity, stretching a bit before adding, “and there’s nothing wrong with _Call Me by Your Name_. Guadagnino isn’t really popular but he’s known in the indie crowd. His actors seem to really like him and hold him in high esteem and...I trust my agent.”

Armie wanted to say something to that, but he managed to stop himself; this was new and he wasn’t ready to ruin it with his cynicism. So he substituted his silence with a shrug. “So, there’s nothing about the film makes you nervous?”

“All acting makes me nervous.”

Armie scrutinised his food. “I meant the intimacy. The nudity. The…” He looked up and a made a general gesture but Timmy got it.

“I like intimacy,” he said, more confidently than he felt. “I don’t really know why but as long as I’m comfortable with the other actor or actors, it doesn’t really bother me. I kind of get a thrill from those really difficult, emotional scenes. I had some of those in this film I did with James Franco, _The Adderall Diaries_ , where there was a lot of screaming, and anger, and violence. In a way, it was a good release. Intimate scenes are the same for me in that sense. At the end of the day, it doesn’t mean anything, but in the moment, it’s nice to let go a bit and fall into the mind of another character and take whatever it is they’re taking from their companion. And give. Lots of giving. I...find it a way to be yourself without being yourself, if that makes sense. Nudity is also not really a problem. I signed a clause to keep from showing anything too risque but later on, if…” Timmy gave a soft smile, like he was admitting to a fantasy, “...if I do well, I would probably forego the clause if I felt the scenes were tasteful.”

When Armie didn’t respond right away (he was digesting his food and Timmy’s words), Timmy added, “Have you done a lot of high-intensity emotional scenes?”

Armie shrugged again. “A couple. I think I overdid them though. Critics said I overacted. I’m inclined to agree.”

Timmy peered at him curiously, surprised at his cynicism, the cynicism that Armie had just told himself moments earlier that he wouldn’t show. “Do you find it hard to avoid critics? My agent constantly gives me contradictory advice. Some days he says I should ignore them. Other days he says they can be good to gage popularity and whatever. PR stuff, I guess, I don’t know.”

“My wife thinks I listen to them too much. Back in the day, I did. These days, unless I’m directly tagged in it, like on twitter, I tend to ignore them. It took a lot of disappointment though to get that far. Failure really is the best teacher.” Armie smiled to indicate it was a joke, even though it really wasn’t, but Timmy was appeased.

“I don’t think Luca is going to let us mess this one up,” he said, laughing a little. “I still think I’m going to fuck it up but I don’t think Luca is going to settle for anything less than perfect, even if that means we have to film the same scene eighty-five times in a row.”

Armie made a noise. “That brings back bad memories of times when I’ve had to do exactly that. Let’s not.”

“All right, all right. Anyway, I’m not that worried. Not about you anyway. Maybe if Shia LaBoeuf had actually taken the role, I’d be more concerned.” He caught the look on Armie’s face. “B-because he kinda comes across as someone who doesn’t shower often. You look...very...clean.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Timmy looked worried.

“You seem very clean yourself,” Armie said. “Very...hygienic. I am no longer worried about bad breath.”

“You _dick_.” _Good job, Timmy, insulting your co-star on not just the very first day, but the very first time you fucking meet._

Now Armie laughed outright, one of those bigger laughs, hearty and full. This warmed Timmy up quite a bit. “You started that one, kid.”

Timmy held up his hands in surrender. “You’re right, I did. We have over two months together ahead of us and it won’t be the first thing I start either.”

Armie wiped his mouth with a napkin. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“New York City versus Los Angeles. Bring it.”

“Oh, _oh_ , are we really going to play east side versus west side now? Because boy, do I have some things to tell you…”

“All ears.”

“All ears will end with no teeth.”

Red splotches appeared around Timmy’s neck and ears but he grinned a little sheepishly. “You’d kill me.”

“Squash you like a little bug.” Armie pushed his plate away from him. “I should have known it was a bad idea to eat something so heavy. Elizabeth _and_ Luca had suggested cooking meals when we arrived but I didn’t want to impose. I’m going to see if they have any to-go boxes.”

Timmy stood up slowly, stretching like a cat. Armie watched in fascination, noting how Timmy’s ribs made his tee jut out, noticing how long, and pale and blemish-free his neck was. “Because the first thing anyone should do when they’re on a paid holiday is have a heavy, starchy meal first. I could also use another drink. Come on.” Timmy was surprised and thrilled that Armie actually wanted to spend more time with him so, wordlessly, he followed Armie into the cafe.

“I should be so much more tired,” Armie mused when they returned to their table. “What’s the nightlife like?”

Timmy laughed, still feeling the edge of that thrill from before. Armie seemed to like him. This was the best thing that had happened to Timmy in weeks. “Practically non-existent. I went to a club called _Magika_ a while back. It was fun but it wasn’t… I dunno. I dunno what I was expecting.”

“First time at a club?”

“No.” Timmy frowned. “Not even my first time at a club in Europe. I don’t know. It _did_ feel good to go though. I met a girl, Elisa, and that was fun. But I don’t go to clubs to be fulfilled. I feel like a lot of people do and maybe I still had that expectation when I went. But I’m not missing whatever the club has to offer, you know? I just go to dance and have fun, but it’s not… what am I even saying… it’s not a need. Or a desire.” Timmy paused, legitimately wondering where his train of thought was actually going. Maybe he, too, could use a nap. “I…” He couldn’t finish the thought though it was there, lurking upon the tip of his tongue.

“You don’t go to clubs the way people do cocaine,” Armie said. “It doesn’t satisfy a hole inside you because there’s no hole. Or at least, it’s not the thirst you crave. You go because the atmosphere can be fun.”

“Dude, you were actually listening to what I was saying?”

Armie shrugged, took a drink from his glass, and said, “Sure, every word so far. Keep it up and I may fall asleep though.” His eyes twinkled and Timmy smirked. “But you’re right; there is an expectation around the act of clubbing, a trope, or stereotype. But the Greeks were right, too: everything in moderation.”

“Do you do everything moderately?”

“Hell no.”

Timmy leaned back in his chair, admiring the sight before him. Things were going well so far. But still, he had to be careful - this was just the first meeting. There was plenty of time for things to go wrong. His anxiety descended upon him like a rain-filled cloud so he added, before the conversation could go stale, “Tell me about your family? Please?”

Armie loved and hated the way Timmy said ‘please.’ He was sure that Timmy sounded great saying such a word in other contexts but Armie didn’t even bother to entertain _that_ thought. It would lead nowhere good. “I’m married to the most beautiful woman in the world, Elizabeth. I have a fantastic daughter named Harper Grace. We have a dog named Archie. We live in Brentford, one of the Westside neighbourhoods of L.A.” He paused for a moment, chuckling darkly. “This makes my life sound so picturesque. It’s not, but it sounds it.” He hesitated again. He did _not_ mention the cause of the most recent bout of tension between he and his parents, for example, the fact that political columnists had compared his great-grandfather, Armand Hammer, to Donald Trump. This comparison had pleased his mother, Dru, but she’d not been pleased with the reasoning. Stuff like that seemed too heavy for this meeting.  Best to avoid mentioning the parents all together. “I _am_ grateful for what I have, don’t get me wrong. Anyway… you should come by sometime, I’ll show you the sights. Brentwood has a lot to offer.”

“I’ve never visited L.A.,” Timmy said wistfully. “But I’d love to go. It would be awesome to live close to a beach that was… actually a _beach_ , you know? New York City is home and I… I mean, it’s my life, right, so, it houses all that’s important to me. But I’d like to visit. You don’t sound ungrateful at all.”

Armie gave him a sardonic look. “Thanks for the reassurances. I’m definitely a beach bum of some magnitude. I grew up in the Cayman Islands. I’ve been around water all my life.”

“The Caymans? Wow! Lucky, man!” Timmy held out his arms. “I burn in the sun. Well, I burn and then tan. My burns turn _into_ tans.”

Armie stared at Timmy’s exposed skin, noting how he seemed to almost glow in his paleness. He forcibly raised his eyes. “That’s not good for the skin. Elizabeth is going to tackle you with skin care advice if you go around saying stuff like that in front of her. She’s already mentioned wanting to go for facials.”

Timmy groaned. “No, no, no thanks. Do _you_ like facials?”

Armie made a noise in the back of his throat, like a glottal chuckle of some kind at the innuendo before saying, “Actually, yes. I kind of enjoy being pampered. It always feels really good and it’s really soothing. Even acupuncture has its positives.”

“No, man, don’t say that! Being poked with all those needles--”

Armie shrugged. “You should try it before you knock it,” but he said this nicely, almost playfully. “Expect an invitation for facials though.”

Timmy sighed through his nose. “Can I say no without being rude?”

Armie set down his fork. “Timmy, I’m not your _boss_. You can say no to me any time.”

‘Well, I wouldn’t be saying no to _you_ , just… my idea of fun isn’t spending two hours in a salon.”

Armie took a bit of his sandwich while he pondered his answer. Chewing thoughtfully, he said, “You’ll change your mind after the first time.”

“I’m not sure I believe that.”

Armie grinned, showing off those teeth again. Timmy obliquely pursed his own lips, hiding his teeth, even though he knew they weren’t bad at all. Even in Armie’s exhaustion, he seemed like perfection, like he’d just walked off the red carpet. Matthew McConaughey hadn’t seemed half as put together and Christopher Nolan had constantly reminded Timmy of a business executive for an oil company rather than an impassioned film director. But it was like Armie didn’t even _try._ He just _was_. Timmy envied that effortlessness, the effortless grace and beauty. He kind of had an urge to get on Google images and see if Armie had a slob side. That would make Timmy feel a tad better. “Just imagine it, Timmy. Imagine receiving the best skin treatment the West can offer, in the comfort of your own home, with the nimble fingers of a pretty lady. Then tell me you’d say no. You gotta be at least willing to try, am I right?”

Timmy relented. “Okay, okay, _fine_ , but only because you say so.”

“Oh yeah, I say so,” Armie responded loftily. “You’d asked me about my family. What’s yours like? Livin’ as a hotshot in N-Y-C?”

Timmy laughed a little awkwardly. “Ha, no, I wish. My mother, Nicole, is a real-estate agent, which is… cool, I guess. My dad works for UNICEF and is often back in France. He’s, uh, French. I mean, that’s where I get the French part from. I have a sister, Pauline, who acts and dances. She lives in France now actually... Acting kind of runs in the family, I guess? My mother’s brother, Rodman, my uncle, works in TV. He’s like a producer, and a director,  and so, yeah, that’s really cool. My grandmother was a Broadway dancer.” He said all of this very easily.

Armie nodded, like he sort of expected this. “So, you’ve been surrounded by the industry all your life?”

Timmy nodded. “Yeah, I guess you can say that. I knew from a young age that I wanted to act and so my parents told me I should audition for LaGuardia, which is like, a, uh, a...it’s a performing arts high school in New York. What about you?”

This was heading into dangerous territory much sooner than Armie had expected. His response was vague. “What about me?”

Timmy, not reading the atmosphere at _all_ , said, “I mean, you’re a big movie star. Your parents must be proud of that, right?”

Armie thought for a moment.

 _Why can’t you be like your brother? Viktor would never have done this to us!_ Crying, on his mother’s part. _You should be ashamed of yourself_. _Just look at you!_ Look _at yourself, you spoiled brat! No one would ever hire you!_ Why would I take over a business built on corruption and greed, huh?! Why would anyone want that?! _How dare you disrespect your legacy, boy!_ Why can’t you just allow me this chance to do something I really want to do?!

“Not really,” Armie said with a tight smile. “Well, I think they’ve come around to the idea. I know my father definitely has.”

 _Thank you so much for letting me crash here_ … A warm smile from his best friend, a young Italian boy. _‘Ey, mi casa es su casa. Mama said you’re welcome here._ Armie had hugged him and they’d spent the first night watching old movies. _You should have seen their faces. It was like I’d told them I decided to join the Church of Satan._ Nick had laughed. _Or came out as a gay?_ Armie’s smile had vanished at the thought. _Or if I’d come out as homosexual, yeah_.

“Man, I’d hope so.” Timmy took a drink from his glass, smacked his lips a bit, and sat back lazily, catlike. “ _The Social Network_ is totally my jam, man.”

“The good ol’ days.” Coming out of his shallow reverie, Armie raised his glass. “To acting?”

Timmy clinked his glass with Armie’s. “How about to art? To fulfilling our dreams?”

“I can drink to that.”

They finished up their drinks, grabbed their to-go boxes, and walked over to Timmy’s apartment. “You can come up if you want,” he said as Armie admired the fact that Timmy was literally staying right across from Caffè Marini. He was almost inclined to say yes because curiosity was a bitch like that and he was, admittedly, enjoying himself. But he knew Elizabeth was waiting and he missed Harper, too.

“Nah, man, I can’t tonight. Gotta take care of the kid, you know. Dad stuff.” He smiled tiredly as the weariness reared its ugly head. “I’ll see it soon, I’m sure. But I’ll see _you_ tomorrow, bright and early.”

 

*** 

On his way back, Armie hadn’t even realised that Elizabeth had sent him a text messaging telling him to enjoy himself and take as long as he needed, telling him that she’d already put Harper to bed and was settling in herself. When Armie entered the apartment, he set down his keys and wallet, and headed straight for the bedroom. Elizabeth was, indeed, asleep, with a magazine on her face, which only happened when she was particularly exhausted. Armie laughed to himself and moved the magazine to the bedside table, kissed her forehead, and went to check on Harper.

Harper was also fast asleep. Armie reached a hand down a stroked her cheek before circling back to the bed to undress and get under the covers. He answered texts from Cameron, Ashton, Tyler, Nick, and one of the Sanchezes (he couldn’t always tell which one because they were all equally weird). He was much too tired to respond to anything else. A question lurked in his mind so he pulled up instagram and searched for Timothée Chalamet. A public account came up and Armie scrolled through the photos. Many of the photos were of random things, like paintings, or people Armie didn’t know. Other times, there were pictures of Timmy looking super young and...not like anything Armie would have expected. There were photos where Timmy certainly seemed like he was high or a bit inebriated, hanging with friends who meant nothing to Armie. Multi-faceted, this kid was. What was on instagram didn’t match what Armie had initially thought and coupled with _those_ thoughts, nothing matched with what had gone down during their dinner at the cafe. It was like Timmy’s online persona was different than his acting persona was different than his private persona.

Armie set his phone on the bedside table and thought about this for a while. Was he also multifaceted? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t really think so. He was pretty himself on Instagram. And Twitter. And in most interviews. Wasn’t he? Timmy seemed like an open book, but a book that you started reading without ever really knowing what genre it was. The minute you thought you were reading a psychological thriller, it turned into a romance. The moment you thought it was a romance, it turned into science fiction. And science fiction became documentary became philosophy became self-improvement…

Armie knew he wasn’t the easiest husband in the world. No marriage is perfect and he and Elizabeth had definitely had their moments of roughness, usually stemming from his own issues, from his own mishandling of how much his childhood affected him, stemming from how little of that Elizabeth could understand, having had an easier time of it as a kid than he had. Also, stemming from the fact that Armie never felt like he really understood _himself_. He’d get mad at Elizabeth for not understanding and then later get mad at himself for expecting her to totally get it when _he_ didn’t even get the shit that went on his head.

Now, Elizabeth may not truly get it, but she could read him when he was heading into those dark moments, sometimes before he was even aware of it himself. She didn’t understand the details much like a 12th generation American probably didn’t understand the struggle of an immigrant. She could try and place herself in his shoes all she wanted, but at the end of the day, she didn’t have his experiences. But the fact is: Elizabeth _tried_. And in between bouts of exasperation that Armie felt he deserved, there was love, there was compassion, and there was support.

Armie could spend all his waking time wishing he’d grown up more like Timothée Chalamet, had had what seemed like a wonderful, supportive family from the start, a family who _understood_. He could be this wild, mysterious person who was one way on Instagram, another way in public, and an even _different_ way behind closed doors, but he’d never been able to separate himself like that, because all of his life, he’d needed to have as much of himself together, in one place, just to get through the day.

Armie had never had to fragment himself because he’d fought for himself ever since he was seventeen. But even so, he still _felt_ fragmented.

With all the pieces of himself, and the pieces he’d gained from meeting Timmy, zig-zagging through his mind, he fell asleep.

 

***

 

Timmy lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He knew he should have called Pauline. She had wanted to know all the details immediately. He knew he should have responded to Brian’s text. He probably should have said something in the family chat. Probably should have contacted Giullian. Instead, he stared at Will’s message. A short, simple, _all is forgiven, just gimme a call tomorrow ok?_  

A call _tomorrow._ Why couldn’t Timmy just call him today?

His thoughts turned to Matteo. To Elisa. To Maika. To Lola. To the girls before that. 

_Stop doing this to yourself._

He sighed, turned on his side, put his phone on the table, and stared at it until his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep.

 _When the tempo slows up_  
_And creates that new, new_  
_He seems alive_  
_Though he is feelin' blue_  
_The sun is shinin'_  
_Man he's super cool, cool_  
_The lonely nights_  
_They fade away_  
_And then he's on the way_  
_To free his mind in search of_  
_To free his mind in search of  
_ _To free his mind in search of..._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_


	8. it begins to rain and ice breaking's a thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i really don't know i'm sorry

_A thousand nights have passed_  
_Change doesn't happen overnight_  
_Not visible at first (no)_  
_It's important to hold on, hold on_

 _Come down to the Black Sea_  
_Swimming with me, ah-ooh, ooh_  
_Go down with me, fall with me_  
_Let's make worth it, ah-ooh, ooh_

-  _Black Sea_ , Natasha Blume

 

Timmy woke up forty-two minutes before his alarm and just lay there, in bed, wondering if yesterday had actually happened and why the fuck he’d felt it necessary at the time to call his costar a dick. _He probably found me annoying_. Was _I annoying?_ _What if he doesn’t like me?_ _What if we can’t make it work?_

_What if he hates the way I look and can’t even pretend to like it?_

_Just a bunch of fucking molecules._

_What the fuck was I thinking, signing onto this project?_

Plenty of actors have had convincing romantic scenes, sex scenes even, with people they were not even remotely attracted to, right? Armie wasn’t exactly an inexperienced actor. _He’s gonna know I’m just a charlatan_. _He’s gonna figure me out_. (God, Armie had been so tall, too and just... _long_ , like he went on for ages)

 _What does it mean to be Timothée Hal Chalamet?_ Shifman’s voice, this time like a reprimand.

 _Just a bunch of molecules_. The girl from LaGuardia.

Timmy had brought that scene up with Giullian and Will awhile ago. Will had just shaken his head and said, “That’s a _what_ , not a _who_.”

Giullian, munching thoughtfully on doritos, had said, “According to nihilistic determinism, identity can be found at the molecular level so, technically, it’s still a _who_ , not a _what._ ”

“Oh, what _ever_ , dude,” came Will’s laughing response. “Just ignore him, Timmy-Tim, he’s going through a know-it-all-wannabe-Buddha philosophy phase.”

_Who are you_

_Who are you_

_Who_ are _you?_

He needed a familiar voice. He dialed Will.

“Nngg?” came Will’s sleepy reply. “Who...Nn...Timmy?”

Words were caught in Tim’s throat like something sharp threatening to slice him from the inside.

“Tim…” It wasn’t a question. Even being nearly dead asleep, Will understood. He always did.

Timmy finally found some air. Swallowed. “Yeah,” he said throatily. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Am I dreaming?”

Timmy laughed lowly. “Do you dream of me a lot?”

Now it was Will’s turn to laugh, something raspy, something pleasant. “Maybe…”

“Just stay on the phone with me, man.”

“Mm...mkay.”

“You can go back to sleep, if you need to. Just don’t hang up.”

“Mkay…”  
  
It wasn’t long before he could hear Will’s sleepy breathing. It was slow and comforting and Timmy let it wash over him, let it calm his own racing heart.

When his alarm finally went off, Timmy felt oddly zen and sluggish, like everything around him, even in its stillness, was in slow motion. Like everything he did was gentle, soft, careful. Almost like he was disassociating and see things from behind a transparent wall, one reality looking into another. In a couple hours, he’d be venturing through Moscazzano with a man who went on for forever.

He showered, stared at himself in the mirror, tracing invisible lines from freckle to freckle, licking away the chappedness of his lips, combing his fingers through his hair. By the time he was dressed and locking up to go to the gym, his heart was racing again, but at least, this time, his anxiety was accompanied by confidence.

 

***

 

When Armie woke up, Elizabeth was already almost ready for the day. Harper was up and dancing around to a song from _Frozen,_ while she finished applying her makeup. Armie got up and stetched with a loud groan. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at him and he laughed, and came over to give her a kiss.

Halfway through the kiss, she pushed him away. “Ugh, you’ve got morning breath!”

“I crashed last night, hon, didn’t have time to do anything.”

“Aren’t you glad I got everything ready?” She said this with a glint in her eye, which didn’t help Armie’s morning mood, in more areas than one.

“Where would I be without you?”

Elizabeth offered a fake pout. “Awww…”

“Dance with me.”

“What?”

Armie squashed himself against the back of her chair, bending nearly double over her, enveloping her in his arms from behind. “Yeah, come on, we can dance to this.” He pulled her to his feet. “Twirl for me.”

“ _What_?” But she was grinning now.

Armie drew her to himself, well aware of how perfect she looked, and how haphazard he looked, like he’d been out at bars all night. He probably smelled almost as bad but to her credit, Elizabeth didn’t pull back.

“Armie. Husband. We have to finish getting ready…”

“We still have…” Armie glanced around, looking for a clock, but not finding one that would allow him to remain in the same comfortable position, so he sighed, and said, “...around forty-five minutes…?”

Elizabeth just laughed and rolled her eyes, enduring his childish but romantic whims.

“Come on, twirl for me. If you twirl for me, I’ll go finish getting ready.”

Elizabeth turned and met his gaze, cat eyes upon wolfish ones. She pursed her lips, but not angrily. “Why is it that when you want to dance, it’s always when we’re alone?”

“Just look at me, sweetie. I’m six five. I’m gangly. I feel like my limbs are going everywhere when I’m on a dance floor in public, like I’m going to accidentally hit someone.”

“Uh huh…” Coy.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Nope.”

Before he could retort, she pushed away from his chest, grabbed his hand, lifted it high and allowed herself a brilliant twirl. Her dress, a beautiful amaryllis red, flared out like a ring of fire around her. And then she was done, and she was a little breathless, and then she kissed Armie despite his bad breath.

After Armie had undressed in the bathroom, he opened the door and peered out at Elizabeth. “It’s a shame you’re already dressed,” he said, “because this shower is _really nice_.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “If you’d gotten up earlier, you could have had a lazy bath instead of a shower. And _that_ could have been even _nicer_.”

Armie groaned. “You’re a horrible woman.”

She smirked. “I know.”

 

 

**2003**

He gazed out across the field. Smoke curled around him before being whisked away by the breeze. He was walking along the edge of a knife, one that was actually a double-edged sword, one that could stab him all the way through, leaving him writhing painfully, rendering him into pleas for death.

He took another puff, inhaling, exhaling. Stubbed the end of the cigarette out on the bleacher.

“I’m gonna do it,” he said finally into the cool night air.

Nick didn’t ask for clarification.

“I’m gonna leave this shithole, Niki,” he reaffirmed. “I’m tired. I’m fucking _done_. God, I’ve never felt so fucking tired.” Like the weariness was built into his bones. Like it was a shroud over his mind.

“Where are you going to go? This is L.A.,” Niki finally said, voice accented and lilting, smooth, subtle in its inquisitive nuances. _This is L.A. How can you escape when your destiny is here?_

“It’s not Los Angeles that I hate,” Armie said quietly. _It’s them. It’s me. I can’t run from me. But I can run from them._ “It’s the business I hate. It’s their brand of Christianity I hate. It’s their family legacy I hate.” He didn’t know if any of that was actually true. That was the most frustrating thing: he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was he was mad at. He wasn’t just furious with how his mother yelled, how she’d screech about the devil and sin, as though she were some sort of puritan. She would have moments where Armie felt he could do no wrong with her, too. And his father… his father rarely raised his voice, something about people who shout do so because they lack the vocabulary to whisper. But that tone of disappointment was all too familiar. Oh, and Viktor.. Precious, perfect Viktor. Armie loved his brother dearly and would die to defend him but… the obsequiousness, the goody-two-shoes behaviour, the blatant _worship_ …

Niki didn’t say anything but Armie wished he would. He wanted Niki to nod, to agree, validate him. But Niki didn’t always have a lot to say, even when there was a lot going on upstairs. Niki wasn’t the angry sort, which never used to be a problem; Armie was angry enough for the both of them. But, in that moment, he needed a mirror. He needed someone to be aggressive _with_ him, in solidarity.

“I need to go home,” Niki said, checking his watch. “I’m sorry. Tomorrow?”

Armie nodded. “Yeah, tomorrow. G’night, man.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

Armie shrugged. “Yeah. I’m going to hang out here for a few more minutes though. See you tomorrow.”

Niki smiled softly and though Armie knew it was genuine, it caused another spike of anger to flare through him, the kind of anger that hurts on a physical level. He waved Niki away. He watched Niki’s shape disappear into the nighttime gloom that had settled over the field and felt another sharp pain, the one that comes with regret.

“You ungrateful bastard,” he said out loud. His voice was stale in the humid air.

Two years later, after he’d moved out, his father’s manor burned down due to an act of carelessness from one of the Hammers’ renovators. Armie came home and saw the skeleton of the house and felt an explosive mix of triumph, amusement, sadness, loss, and loathing. It had been home for a short while. A cage in its own right. But it had also served to make him who he was that day, standing there, staring at the house remains, as his father talked on the phone next to him. Even with all that emotion, he’d felt empty. Like he was a black hole that just swallowed up everything he was supposed to feel, everything he knew he should feel. It was all there, inside that hole, but none of it registered.

In the end, he didn’t even shed a tear for the loss of his family home. Why bother? Wasn’t like they couldn’t just buy a new one of the same calibre. Armie snorted and turned away from the house.

Family’s a bitch sometimes.

 

**April 2016**

On his way over to Luca’s, Timmy scanned twitter and Instagram. He found Armie’s Instagram and his finger hovered over the “follow” button. Was it too soon? It was probably too soon. Yeah, okay, it was too soon. He saw that Armie had posted, something about a smoker. Tim was even more clueless about grilling than he was about food. It struck him as something that felt like such an inherently masculine thing to post about.

 _Radio silence is never a good sign from you, Tim_. Brian’s text.

 _I’m sorry. I went to bed early last night. I met Armie Hammer. He’s super nice and…_ Timmy’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. His mind was drawing a blank. Armie Hammer was nice… and intimidating? Funny? Sardonic? As-a-matter-of-fact? Fun? Outrageously good-looking?

 _...easy-going_.

He then responded to all of his other texts, too. Sent his mom a quick _I love you and miss you. Wish you were here._

At that moment, his phone started chirping. He saw it was a FaceTime request from Pauline. _Oh, shit_ . He checked the time. He had about eleven minutes and he stood there, pondering on whether or not he should answer. He knew he was going to be reprimanded, albeit playfully, and his anxiety was already bad, but at the same time, he knew how his sister could be when he put off promises… And just as he was contemplating, a text banner appear at the top of his phone: _If you think about ignoring my call, little brother, think again_. Followed by a knife emoji and a grinning emoji.

He groaned and then answered the phone.

“Hey, turnip!” she said, much too cheerfully for nine o’clock in the morning.

“Hey, Paw,” he said.

“You didn’t call me last night. Did something happen? How was it? How was the beautiful Armie Hammer?”

Timmy laughed. “Uh… He was...nice…”

Pauline made a disapproving sound. “No, no, don’t talk to me like that! He obviously wasn’t just _nice_.”

He paused, dug his toe into the ground. “He’s...He’s larger than life, man. Literally. Metaphorically. I don’t know. He’s got this massive aura that can be kind of overwhelming. But it’s--but it’s not _bad_.”

“Does he smell good?”

“Whaat?”

Pauline laughed with a toss of her head. “Was he wearing cologne? What does he smell like?”

Timmy frowned at her. “I don’t know, man. I didn’t get that close.”

“You don’t have to get _that_ close to take a whiff, Tim.”

Timmy shrugged. “Well, if he was wearing anything, I didn’t notice, _okay_. He’d just arrived from the airport. I doubt he’d showered since like… two days ago.”

Pauline made a face. “I’m really mad at you for reminding me of the obvious.”

Timmy grinned. “You can’t live through me if I haven’t _lived_ yet.”

“Okay, touché. So, when do you see him next?”

“In about seven minutes. Six minutes.”

Pauline let out a jovial exclamation in French. “Keep me updated!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

As he was walking up to the entrance to Luca’s apartment building, he saw that Armie Hammer was actually not far behind him. Armie’s long legs carried him swiftly even if his walking pace wasn’t any faster than Tim’s. Was it really called ‘walking’ when you had legs that went on for miles? When Armie met Timmy’s gaze, his face broke into a broad, toothy smile and he waved.

“Hey, Timmy!”

Timmy smiled back, a little shyly. “Hey,” he said as Armie came to stop beside him.

“Did you have a good night? Do anything special?”

Timmy shrugged. “Nope. No. Just… went to bed.”

“God, me, too. I was dead on my feet. That was a great restaurant though, the one we went to at the _Duomo_. What was it called again?”

Timmy was not ready for such adamant conversation. “Caffè Marini,” he said. “I go there a lot." He neglected to mention that he went there to see if he could spot a certain familiar face. "There aren’t many places to choose from though, at least not many within walking or biking distances, and a lot of places close early.”

“That’s Europe for you.”

Timmy was saved from having to continue the conversation by Luca opening the doors, looking at the pair of them and saying, “My boys, you don’t need to wait on the doorstep. You can just come in.”

“ _Grazie, grazie_ ,” Armie said amicably and the two of them followed Luca upstairs.

“Did either of you eat?”

“No,” Timmy said at the same time Armie said, “Yes, thank you.”

“Liz and I grabbed a quick snack on the way over here,” he amended.

Luca glanced back. “Where did your Elizabeth go? Why is she not here?”

Armie did that smile thing again, with rows of shiny white teeth. Timmy had to admit it was a very Hollywood smile. Why did Armie always look like he had just stepped off the red carpet but Timmy could barely muster the energy to brush his hair in the morning? Armie was like a man out of time, like he’d come from another era. Timmy knew he had a wealthy background and he’d known other people who’d come from old money. Oftentimes, there was this sense of timelessness around such people and Armie was no different. But where a lot of those other people often spoke with an air of extravagant and unnecessary superiority, Armie spoke more eloquently, with educated annunciation, but also like he’d gone surfing right after attending a royal gala.

“She’s heading back to Milan for the day but she’ll be back tonight.  She’s only staying a couple days.”

“Oh, shame. I wanted to meet the woman married to my perfect Oliver. _And_ I wanted her to try my new savouring with my Venetian-style liver. Niko says it’s missing a key ingredient but… I never know what, I am too close to this project.”

“Hey, I’ll try it,” Armie said pleasantly.

“I assumed you would!”

Timmy was cool with just _not_ eating for a while.

***

 

On the way to the villa, it began to rain. It pit-pattered on the roof of Luca’s car, a lovely harmony to the conversation happening between Luca and Armie. Timmy had tried to pay attention, but as much as they tried to include him, their voices faded in and out so Timmy had just settled comfortably against the back of the seat and drowned himself in social media.

Logging into Twitter, he was bombarded with DMs from a variety of people, people of all ages really, praising him on his work in the _Prodigal Son._ He sighed mentally. He loved it. He loved all the attention, the validation. They uplifted him, gave him worth because he had little regard for himself otherwise (or so he thought). But at the same time, he was exhausted and he remembered how tired he’d been after putting on _Prodigal Son_ , all that anger and violence. A fantastic outlet, but even wires wear thin from too much negativity flowing through them after a while. Acting was a conduit to himself. Danes had been right about that: it’s not about who you are before or maybe even during, it’s who you are _after_ the director says it’s a wrap.

Timmy lurked over his latest tweet, well, a retweet, from John Patrick Shanley: _Don’t take a picture of yourself when you’re crying. It ruins the cry_.

He’d laughed when he’d first read it. It had seemed so obvious to him. Who the fuck would take a picture of their emotional distress? What does that achieve? But then he thought about it. He thought about Shanley’s tweet. He thought about possible reasons as to why people would want to capture their own external chaos. Maybe taking a picture of such a moment was a relief? An outlet? Like all his yelling in _Prodigal Son_ and _The Adderall Diaries_? Kinda like screaming into a pillow or yelling at your reflection in a mirror? Or maybe people did it just to see what they look like when they cry, if they’re still beautiful.

Timmy set his phone down on his lap and stared out the rain-streaked window. But Shanley was right, too. Focusing on image and the exterior when you’re trying to work through something that hurts you… It reminded him of Mr. Perlman’s speech in _Call Me by Your Name_. He turned, reached into his pack and pulled out the script, bound, and protected in plastic. He flipped through it to close to the end.

 _...if there is pain, nurse it_ …

Timmy was again reminded of how glad he was that Luca was definitely going to keep that monologue in the film. The rest of the script was still being worked through and Luca had warned him that some scenes could change or be cut entirely, but that scene, that one was pretty solid, pretty set in stone.

Timmy could see how taking a picture of your own grief would just interrupt your flow of emotion. Still. He sometimes wondered what he looked like when he was distressed. Not acting either. He wondered if they looked the same, if he knew himself to spot the differences between his real emotion and his pretend emotion. He didn’t quite think he was good enough of an actor to look the exact same, but he also didn’t think he could tell the difference.

“You’re very quiet back there, Timmy, are you okay?” Luca asked. Armie turned in his seat to glance back at him.

Timmy gazed back. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just thinking.”

“About?” That was Armie, curious, genial.

Timmy shrugged. “Just… just why people sometimes take pictures of themselves crying. And, uh… if it’s possible to see a difference between acting emotion and real emotion, even if you’re being as authentic as possible in front of the camera...like, you’re really drawing from something inside of you.”

Armie raised his eyebrows. Timmy wasn’t sure but he thought that Armie might have looked impressed.

“I think cinema is a mirror,” Luca said. “It is a reflection of yourself. It is a reflection of the world.”

“Like a ‘art imitates life’ sorta thing? Or is it ‘life imitates art’...” Timmy mused. He had photos of he and his classmates standing next to famous classical paintings and posing like the figures in said paintings. 

“Oscar Wilde,” Armie said, surprising Timmy. “He argued that life imitates art far more than art imitates life.”

“But wouldn’t we say that life came first?”

“It did, but we perceive everything through a personal lens and in order to create art, we have to interpret reality through that very personal, very human lens. In doing so, we find beauty in things that have always existed and this gets passed down from generation to generation and we are taught to see beauty in things so often that it becomes culturally ingrained in us.”

Tim thought of how Will found certain juxtaposition of architecture in Manhattan to be utterly appealing, like the way the lines matched up, or intersected, the way the sky could be reflected in skyscraper windows. He thought of how Giullian’s girlfriend, Garance, had taken a picture of a couple of rocks after a rainstorm, the way they kind of glistened in the burgeoning light.

Timmy sighed. Armie gave him a questioning look, perhaps about to ask him again for his thoughts, which Timmy wasn’t sure he was ready to give yet again, but Luca had pulled into the driveway and their attention was diverted to the landscape at hand.

“Wow,” Armie said. “This… this is beautiful.”

Timmy winced when he got out of the car as the rain struck his bare skin. They dashed up the stairs and into the main corridor where other members of the crew were standing around talking and sipping coffees. Armie was introduced to Giulia, Violante, Peter, Elena, Sayombhu and others. Sayombhu pulled Luca aside. Timmy, curious, stood nearby, sort of eavesdropping. He was showing Luca pictures on poster board.

“I tried the 50D and 250D,” he said. “But the interior shots are just not as real. But look at this--” he gestured to one panel in particular, “--the 500T. I think that’s the one I want to work with, it’s best with interior shots and exterior night time shots. But it’ll be _most_ effective in mitigating the daytime shots with the ND filters because of all the rain.”

Luca held the poster board up. “I like the colours in this one,” he said, agreeing. He glanced outside and then back at the panel. “The colours are more authentic. The others look washed out.”

He handed the a couple pieces back to Sayombhu as he looked through them. “One lens?”

“One lens,” said Sayombhu. Timmy thought he _might_ know what that meant but he wasn’t sure.

“Mm. Okay. But we have to test several lenses to see which one fits…”

“I already have a repertoire to share with you. We can do some scouting when the weather clears.”

Luca did a half shrug. “If it clears.”

Timmy left them to their devices and began to wander the villa again. It had only been a couple of days, less than a week, that he’d been there last but already so much had changed. The painting job was complete and the walls were lined with maps and paintings, chairs, tables adorned with vases and other nick-knacks. The floor was polished. When Timmy entered a doorway, he saw that the kitchen was about halfway done. Tiling had been replaced. Pots and pans lay stacked on one counter-top, waiting to be sorted. There was a pile of dishware, dish towels and so on, placed atop a couple of aprons. He saw another vase of flowers, some small paintings of the countryside.

In another room, he saw a massive four poster bed with elegant linens. It wasn’t done yet either as half the room needed paint and there were boxes stacked in a corner. Timmy assumed it was to be Mr. and Mrs. Perlman’s room.

It wasn’t too long before Luca called for him, announcing that it was time to eat. Timmy made his way to the kitchen where he saw that it had been taken over by Niko and Niko’s wife, Cristina, Luca, Ferdinando, Tom, and Walter - it seemed they’d all worked together to turn the half-finished kitchen into a soup kitchen because pots of food were everywhere. Armie passed him, patting him on the back as he did. Timmy frowned and grabbed a plate.

Outside, the rain continued on.

They ate in the living room, sitting on the floor, at the newly installed piano, on chairs, on the sofa. Armie was perched on the armrest of the sofa right next to Timmy. Timmy was distinctly aware of his proximity but he ate in self-conscious silence. Luca was watching them, leaning into his own hand, lips splayed over his mouth and chin, lost in thought.

Later, when the rain had cleared up and the majority of the crew had gone outside to continue landscaping and blocking discussions, Timmy was laying on his stomach on the sofa, surfing his social media and texting in the group chats: the Chalamets and Flenders were far too many for a single chat. So in one chat, he was arguing about French politics with his cousins Lothaire and Tristan, and in another chat, he was conversing enthusiastically with his Uncle Rodman and Pauline. And in iMessage, he was back and forthing with Will, Jake, Giullian, and some French friends. Honestly, it was an ideal moment for Tim, just to relax and talk to those who cared about him. Family could be a trifle at times, but he survived on their validation, their support, their love. It hadn’t always been this easy. He’d gone through a dark period, like many children did, where he was afraid his parents would divorce, that this prospect of divorce meant they didn’t love him or want him in their lives. Those were the worst years of his life, the three years that dominated his pre-teen youth. It was the one major time that he could recall where his life had been on the verge of ending as he’d known it. It was then that he’d experimented with a few dangerous ideas before realising none of them were for him.

At least, not _entirely_.

Timmy set down his phone, buried his face in his arms, feeling weary and wondering why he was so tired lately.

He was yanked out of his reverie when he felt a tender hand on his back: Armie had shaken him lightly.

“Oh, hey, man, I thought you were sleeping,” he said with an easy smile. He cocked his head. “Luca wants us outside for something.”

Timmy blinked up at him. “Did he say what for?” He got to his feet.

Armie shrugged. “Nope. But he did say bring your script.”

Timmy was hit with the humidity on the way out. There were only a couple clouds in the sky and the sun was shining, its rays split by the foliage. It wasn’t particularly hot but it was muggy and Timmy was sure he was going to start sweating profusely at any second. They found Luca around back, in the garden area. He was beckoning to them, almost urgently.

“There,” he said, pointing to a patch of dewy grass. “I want to do a rehearsal right quick.”

Armie glanced at Timmy who was suddenly paler than usual.

“Now? Here?” he asked.

Luca nodded. “Yes. I am following through on a hunch. Turn to Scene 67 for me. When you’re ready."

   [](https://ibb.co/gp050z)

Timmy breathed out when he saw the scene. He and Armie met each other’s gaze and then they both shrugged and settled down on the grass.

“Ugh…” Timmy muttered, feeling the wetness of the grass beneath him and wishing he had access to a nice shower at the moment. Armie didn’t seem to be faring any better.  Timmy stared at his script, trying to do a quick memorisation. Then he fell onto his back, stretched a bit, and stared, or squinted, at the sky.

“So much of it is wrong,” he said, exasperated, channeling some of the frustration he’d felt all day.

“What? Your family?” Armie asked.

“That, too.”

Armie paused, as though considering his response. “Us, you mean?” he persisted, sounding a little amused.

Armie turned onto his side and moved over to Timmy, staring down at him. He took in Timmy’s paleness, his rosy lips, the scattered moles and freckles, the stubborn pointiness of his nose. Then Timmy was laughing and the short spell was broken.

“I’m sorry!” he said, bringing his script close to his face. “I--uh, fuck-- I’d forgotten what I was supposed to be doing and he’s just… _staring_ \--”

“That’s what the script says.” Armie rolled his eyes but he was grinning.  

“Okay, okay, I’ll be serious. I’m serious.” Timmy moved a hand in front of his face, revealing a stern expression. Armie almost started laughing. “Let’s… let’s just continue from there. Please. Go ahead. Stare at me.”

Armie chuckled. “Fine. I _will_.”

“Boys.” That was Luca.

“Okay, serious business now,” Timmy said and laid back down. Armie set his script down and he let his fingers hover over Timmy’s lips before touching his bottom lip ever so lightly. Timmy didn’t allow himself to breathe. Such a simple touch and it felt so good, so gentle, so much _more_ than it was. As Armie smiled down at him, Timmy took a moment to gather himself, to prepare himself. When Armie leaned down to kiss him, it was just as soft and even lighter than his touch had been. It was so chaste that Timmy found himself almost annoyed with _Armie_ about it. He started to kiss back, in a kind of vengeful way, like a _fuck you for making me feel inadequate sort of way_.

“No, no, no, _no_ ,” came an outraged exclamation.

They pulled apart and looked over at Luca expectantly.

“That was terrible,” Luca said, the criticism giving his voice a sharp edge to it. “That looked more like a stupid school-boy game. It looked like you, Timmy, had chose to do a dare instead of tell the truth and you hated the dare. Do not do that. Make it more real.”

“More real?” Timmy echoed.

“Just--just do the kissing part again only,” Luca said. “Don’t look at the script.”

“Okay, be real,” Armie said, nodding like he understood (he had no idea what Luca was talking about). “Great advice. Cool, let’s do this.” Timmy closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself two deep inhales and exhales before they began again.

He turned to Timmy. “Better now?”

Timmy, still on his side, glanced down and away, at the grass. He fidgeted, thought for a moment. _You are Elio_ . Then he lifted himself back up and pressed his lips to Armie’s. He held himself there, barely able to breathe. _I love him, I love him, I love him. I love this one more than life itself._ He allowed these words to flow through him and weave themselves into the ghost that was Elio, allowed the ghost to settle inside him, bones within bones, heart within heart, soul within soul. As Elio melded with him, Timmy realised he wanted to take Armie apart, dissect him, treasure each piece, keep them to himself. It was a thought that came wrapped in desperation. He kissed harder, licking Armie’s lips open, wanting that tongue to be in his mouth, daring Armie to take the step and embrace Oliver, embrace Timmy as Elio. _Be in me now_ . Elio lifted himself off the ground, straddled Armie’s lap. The Timmy in Elio pressed down, grinding hard, making sure Armie as Oliver would feel everything. _Feel it. You know you want it, you’ve said so._

Timmy raised his hands and ran them through Armie’s Oliver hair, tugging back, causing Armie to issue a soft grunt of pleasure. Timmy couldn’t stop kissing him. He ground his hips against Armie’s. Oliver’s tongue finally met his and Timmy let him chase it into his own mouth. Everything was suddenly much brighter, blindingly so. Everything was suddenly much clearer. Everything was suddenly much more pleasant. Elio’s entire body was electrified with the pleasure. Armie was a talented kisser - artful with his lips, never overwhelming his, Elio’s, never leaving behind too much wetness, quiet, and sultry in the way he handled Timmy’s begging gasps. Timmy had to pull back, just a millimetre, to catch his breath, which Armie, not wanting to give him a chance to rest, swallowed eagerly. Oliver laid back down on the grass, movements slow and graceful like a big cat’s. Timmy followed, leaning forward. There was a moment of consideration where Timmy wanted to fall to his side and drag Armie on top of him but as much as the Elio inside him begged for such a thing, a fraction of Timmy’s mind, which was still logical, insisted this would not be realistic to the scene.

Timmy drew back again, still close enough for their noses to touch, to taste each other’s breaths, and Timmy kissed Armie’s chin and along his jawline. Fingertips lightly stroked the back of his neck. He thought he heard a murmur, something that sounded like “ _beautiful boy_ ” but the words were carried away in a subtle breeze. Armie was breathing heavily, however, caught in a moment. Timmy had the urge to sit up straight and adjust his hips in a way that would _really_ get things going but–

Armie muttered something quietly that Timmy didn’t catch.

Elio responded with a nonsensical noise of his own, kissing beneath Oliver’s jaw and down his neck. He lapped eagerly at Oliver’s Adam’s apple. He could go further, really, just keep kissing, down, and down, and down–

“Timmy–” Armie said, this time a little louder.

Elio looked up. “Nnm?”

“Didn’t you hear me? Luca’s–Luca’s just… _gone_.”

Timmy felt himself crash to the Earth heavily. He looked around. Squinted, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. Luca’s shape could be just barely seen over a small hill, standing close to the back patio doors of the villa. “Oh. Huh.” He looked down at Armie, who was trying to hide the fact that he was still panting. “Guess we did it right this time?”

Armie’s face was flushed. “Guess so,” he said, more coolly than he looked. His eyes flicked down Timmy’s torso and back up. He almost looked of half a mind to let Timmy just sit there but his thighs were actually starting to feel tingly. “We should –uh, get up–”

“Okay, okay.” Timmy grinned, and then, in one dizzying motion, leaped to his feet. He held out a hand, which Armie took and Timmy helped him up. Armie staggered a bit, put a hand on Timmy’s shoulder to steady himself. They wiped the grass and dirt from themselves and then checked each other. “Look’s good,” Timmy said, nodding with approving finality, even though he, himself, was covered in grass stains. He felt extraordinarily sticky. Armie took a breath, nodded back, and was about to head forward alone, but Timmy slipped under his arm so, with his arm draped over Timmy’s shoulders, the two of them made their way across the yard to find Luca.

The way back was silent and short-lived. Armie was lost in his own thoughts. Timmy was fidgety and seemed to be mentally talking himself through something. Armie felt sweat trickle down from Timmy’s hairline and onto his arm and he sort of sighed. It didn’t bother him. He would have been grossed out if it had been anyone else, save Elizabeth and his kids and maybe Niki, but… Timmy’s easily trusting nature warred with Armie’s desire to be more professional. They’d just met _yesterday_ for God’s sake and here they were, acting as if they’d been friends for years. Armie didn't even dare entertain how natural the  _rehearsal_ had felt. It wasn't safe to examine something like that when he wasn't alone. 

Whatever. He couldn’t be _completely_ quiet about it. When they reached the Villa, Armie said, with a raised eyebrow, “do you warm up to _everyone_ so easily?”

Timmy thought for a moment, open in his expressiveness, unabashed. “Usually. I like everyone on first sight until they give me a chance to think otherwise. I give people the benefit of the doubt.”

“Why though?”

Timmy shrugged. “Because they usually give it to me first.”

Armie was about to say some snarky, like “That’s bullshit. _I_ didn’t” before he realised that would be bullshit in itself: he had warmed up to Timmy right away, forestalled the bliss of slumber after a long flight in order to meet his costar. He had gone out to dinner with him even.

Just like they’d been friends for years.

Armie had to pause to ponder if he’d ever had that with a coworker before.

Not since Geoffrey Rush, probably. Or Stanley Tucci, who’d been a friend for years. He’d wanted to go out and do things with Henry Cavill but Cavill was standoffish and strangely asocial. And forget Depp. Depp had his own way of doing things. Armie hadn’t felt the least bit up to asking _him_ out for anything. He had been content to watch from a distance and interact only when Depp felt the need to interact. There were times he missed Andrew Garfield and he knew Max Minghella was striking a deal for a hot show to come out on Hulu. Didn’t really miss Eisenberg, guy had been kind of a dick. Alicia Vikander and Elizabeth Debicki had also become family friends.

“Okay, I can see that,” Armie finally amended. “You are quite the charmer.”

Timmy grinned, trying to overcome his light-headedness. “I try, I try.”

Luca came marching through the back gate just then. “Ah, there you are. All right?”

Armie let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, well, that definitely broke the ice.” With a touch of sarcasm, he added, “Thanks, Luca.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, even in the form of concrit, are always appreciated <3 i can be found at the-prince-of-tides.tumblr.com if you have questions or just wanna chill with me :D


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